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OLD     COURT     LIFE 
IN     FRANCE 


VOLUME  II 


PRINTED   IN    GERMANY 


OLD  COURT  LIFE 
IN  FRANCE. 


BY 


FRANCES  ELLIOT. 

AUTHOR  OP 
"DtARY  OF  AN  IDLB  WOMAN  IN  ITAI.V,"    "PICTURES  OF  OLD  ROME.' 


REVISED  COPVRIGHI 
EDITION. 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES. —  VOL.  n. 


BRENT  A  NO'S 

NEW  YORK. 


Printed  in  Germany, 


dc 


CONTENTS 

OF      VOLUME      II. 


Page 

CIIAPTKR    I.     Tempted 7 

—  II.  The  Keeper  of  the  Royal  Conscience          ...  19 

—  III.  A  Noble  Resolve          .......  26 

—  IV.    The  Sacrifice 33 

—  V.  Monsieur  le  Grand.      .......  38 

—  VI.     Death  on  the  Scaffold 1°' 

—  VII.     The  End  of  the  Cardinal 59 

—  VIII.    The  Queen-Regent 64 

—  IX.     The  Due  de  Beaufort 74 

—  X.     Midnight  Visitors 88 

—  XI.    The  Two  Duchesses 94 

—  XII.     "Put  not  thy  I'rust  in  Princes" 105 

—  XIII.     Charles  Stuart 115 

—  XIV.     The  Ladies'  War 125 

—  XV.     Mazarin  Played  Out 131 

—  XVI.     Louise  de  la  Valliere 142 

—  XVII.     The  Convent  of  Ch.-iiIIot 158 

—  XVIII.  Fouquet,  Superintendent  of  Finance  .         .         .         .  169 

—  XIX.     Death  and  Poison 181 

—  XX.     At  Versailles i93 

K^cji^  8  a  * 


6  CONTENTS   OF  VOLUME  II. 

Page 

CHAPTER    XXI.  Madame  de  Montespan 201 

—  XXII.  Broken-hearted 209 

—  XXIII.  M.  de  Lauzun  and  "Mademoiselle "     .        .        .  221 

—  XXIV.  A  Fair  Suitor 230 

—  XXV.  Under  a  Couch 242 

—  XXVI.  Signing  the  Marriage  Contract      ....  252 

—  XXVII.  Plot  and  Counterplot      .        .                 ...  258 

—  XXVIII.  The  Royal  Governess 267 

—  XXIX.  Connubial  Bliss 282 

—  XXX.  Fall  of  De  Montespan   .  • 292 

—  XXXI.  Queen  Maintenon 300 

—  XXXII.  At  Marly 309 

—  XXXIII.  "The  End" 315 


OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 


CHAPTER   I. 

Tempted. 

News  came  from  the  army  announcing  brilliant 
success.  The  valour  of  the  King  was  specially  ex- 
tolled; he  was  no  longer  a  bashful,  feeble  prince,  vic- 
timised by  feminine  cabals,  tyrannized  over  by  Riche- 
lieu. He  had  suddenly  become  a  warrior,  foremost 
in  danger,  leading  his  troops  in  person  into  the  hot- 
test of  the  fray.  Each  day  his  absence  lasted,  and 
every  fresh  intelligence  that  arrived,  added  to  the  ex- 
citement of  Louise  de  Lafayette.  The  danger  to  which 
he  was  exposed  made  her  tremble. 

She  eagerly  desired  his  return,  not  for  the  mere 
pleasure  of  seeing  and  conversing  with  him  (though 
that  was  very  dear  to  her),  but  because  she  was  sure 
that  the  time  had  come  when  he  would  himself  hold 
the  reins  of  government,  and  display  all  that  noble- 
ness of  character  with  which  her  romantic  fancy  had 
invested  him.  Such,  at  least,  was  the  conviction,  how- 
ever delusive,  of  the  pretty  maid  of  honour,  who,  lost 
in  contemplation  of  the  King's  virtues,  failed  to  per- 
ceive the  state  of  her  own  heart. 

At  length  the  campaign  terminated.  Louis  had 
re-taken   all   the  places   conquered  by  the  Spaniards. 


8  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

They  were  in  full  retreat.  The  King  returned  to  Paris, 
which,  not  having  been  considered  out  of  danger  from 
the  attacks  of  the  enemy,  received  him  with  transports 
of  joy.  Mademoiselle  de  Lafayette,  a  witness  of  the 
universal  enthusiasm,  saw  in  Louis  the  worthy  succes- 
sor of  Henry  the  Great,  and  the  inheritor  of  all  his 
glory.  Intoxicated  by  these  dreams,  she  imagined  that 
even  her  advice  would  be  in  future  needless — that  the 
King  of  his  own  accord  would  suppress  the  arrogance 
of  Richelieu ,  and  from  henceforth  exercise  the  royal 
authority  alone. 

The  following  day,  the  Court  being  at  the  Louvre, 
Louis  visited  the  Queen  at  her  lever.  As  he  returned 
into  the  ante-room,  he  approached  Louise  de  La- 
fayette. She  was  too  much  agitated  even  to  welcome 
him.  That  Louis  was  also  greatly  moved  was  evident. 
The  pallor  that  always  overspread  his  face  when  ex- 
cited, was  almost  death-like,  and  every  feature  worked 
convulsively.  For  some  moments  they  stood  opposite 
each  other,  without  saying  a  word.  Then,  overmas- 
tering his  agitation,  Louis  spoke  to  her  in  a  low  voice: 
— "I  know  not,  mademoiselle,  when  we  shall  be  able 
to  resume  those  conversations  which  were  so  infinitely 
delightful — I  am  overwhelmed  with  business."  Then, 
after  glancing  round,  and  seeing  that  every  one  had 
retired,  he  seized  her  band  and  kissed  it  tenderly, 

"Ah!  so  much  the  better,"  said  Louise,  beaming 
with  smiles.     "May  you.  Sire,  ever  be  thus  occupied." 

"Do  you  want  to  banish  me,  then,  just  as  I  am 
returned'?"  said  he,  retaining  her  hand  in  both  of  his. 

"No,  Sire;  but  I  want  to  see  you  reign." 

"You  have  heard  me  blamed  for  my  indolence?  I 
am  sure  you  have.     All  I  ask  is,   that  you  will  wait 


TEMPTED,  9 

and  judge  for  yourself.  The  Court  is  filled  with  my 
enemies."     He  spoke  with  animation. 

"Sire,  I  need  not  wait,"  replied  the  maid  of  hon- 
our eagerly,  her  liquid  eyes,  full  of  faith  and  affection, 
turned  upon  him,  "I  have  long  ago  decided  in  your 
favour." 

"May  you  never  change!"  ejaculated  Louis  fer- 
vently. "It  would  console  me  for  a  world  of  injustice. 
I  must  now  leave  you,"  and  he  pressed  her  hand  again 
and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

The  eagerness  with  which  Louis  applied  himself 
to  state  affairs  after  his  return,  evoked  much  mirth  and 
ridicule  among  the  ladies  of  the  Court.  Louise  de 
Lafayette  was  pained.  When  Madame  de  Sennecy 
declared  that  his  Majesty's  industry  could  not  possibly 
last,  she  was  offended  in  the  highest  degree.  The 
Cardinal  too  was  openly  abused  for  the  military  ap- 
pointments he  had  made  during  the  war  by  tliese  fair 
critics,  whereupon  Louise,  who  dared  not  openly  de- 
fend the  King,  endeavoured  to  justify  him  by  exoner- 
ating the  Cardinal.  One  morning,  when  both  King 
and  minister  had  been  bitterly  attacked  in  the  ante- 
room, before  the  Queen  had  left  her  apartments,  Louise 
remarked  to  those  around  her  that  the  Cardinal,  though 
unpopular,  was  undeniably  great;  that  he  had  founded 
the  Academie  Francaise,  rebuilt  the  Sorbonne,  esta- 
blished the  Royal  Printing  Press,  founded  the  Jardin 
des  Plantes,  and  that  as  a  minister  he  was  brave, 
daring,  and  wise. 

These  sentiments  caused  great  surprise,  for  Made- 
moiselle de  Lafayette  had  hitherto  by  no  means  spared 
Richelieu.  The  Duchesse  de  Sennecy  openly  rebuked 
her  for  what  she  styled  her  "hypocrisy,"  and  sent  her 


lO  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

in  tears  to  her  room.  Her  words,  however,  were  im- 
mediately reported  to  the  Cardinal  by  Chavigny,  a 
gentleman  of  the  bedchamber,  who  was  present,  one 
of  the  many  salaried  court  spies  in  his  pay.  Chavigny 
particularly  dwelt  upon  the  earnestness  of  the  maid  of 
honour,  and  assured  the  Cardinal  that  she  could  only 
have  so  expressed  herself  in  order  to  gain  his  favour. 

No  sooner  had  Chavigny  left  the  Palais  Royal 
than  the  Comte  de  la  Meilleraye,  a  distant  relation  of 
Richelieu,  requested  an  audience.  La  Meilleraye  was 
also  in  attendance  on  the  King.  He  had  come,  as  he 
said,  to  ask  a  great  favour  of  his  all-powerful  cousin. 
Would  the  Cardinal  assist  him  to  a  most  advantageous 
marriage  with  a  lady  to  whom  he  was  devoted — Made- 
moiselle de  Lafayette?  From  the  first  moment  he  had 
seen  her,  he  said,  her  beauty,  her  elegance,  her  modest 
bearing  and  simplicity — qualities  so  rare  in  the  Court 
circle — had  enchanted  him.  Thus  spoke  the  Comte 
de  la  Meilleraye.  Richelieu  listened  graciously.  He 
liked  by  all  legitimate  means  to  advance  his  family, 
and  if  the  maid  of  honour  was  his  partisan,  as 
Chavigny  had  reported,  nothing  could  be  more  ex- 
pedient than  such  a  marriage.  He  promised  therefore 
to  consult  the  King  at  once,  and  to  endeavour  to 
obtain  his  permission,  warning  La  Meilleraye  to  do 
nothing  in  the  matter  until  he  had  heard  again  from 
him. 

The  morning  Council  of  State  over,  Richelieu  ac- 
companied the  King  into  his  writing-closet,  to  discuss 
in  private  some  important  matters. 

As  the  Queen's  coterie  had  predicted,  Louis  soon 
wearied  of  business;  everything  was  now  replaced,  as 
before,  in  the  hands  of  the  minister. 


TEMPTED.  1 1 

Louis  leant  back  in  his  chair  He  scarcely  heard 
the  Cardinal's  remarks. 

From  time  to  time,  when  specially  appealed  to, 
he  bowed  his  head  in  acquiescence.  Then  turning 
away  his  eyes  abstractedly  towards  the  windows, 
which  faced  the  inner  court,  he  anxiously  watched 
the  driving  clouds  that  scudded  across  the  sky.  He 
had  fixed  a  hunting-party  at  Rambouillet,  and  longed 
to  start  as  soon  as  the  weather  cleared,  and  Richelieu 
had  left  him. 

The  mellow  voice  of  the  Cardinal,  who,  however 
imperative  in  action,  never  startled  his  feeble  master 
by  any  outward  display  of  vehemence,  had  continued 
speaking  for  some  time  in  a  monotonous  tone, 
when  the  King,  seeing  the  sunshine  appear,  suddenly 
rose.    . 

"Your  eminence  has,  I  imagine,  done  with  me  for 
to-day,"  said  he,  looking  eagerly  towards  the  door. 

"Yes,  Sire;  but  there  is  still  a  trifling  matter  upon 
which  I  would  ask  your  decision." 

"Pray  mention  it,"  replied  Louis,  tapping  his 
boots  with  a  riding-whip  he  had  taken  off  a  table. 

"My  relative,  the  Comte  de  la  Meilleraye,  begs 
your  permission  to  marry." 

"Willingly,"  rephed  Louis;  "who  is  the  fair  lady. 
Cardinal?" 

"It  is  Mademoiselle  Louise  de  Lafayette,  Sire, 
maid  of  honour  to  the  Queen." 

If  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen  at  his  feet,  Louis  could 
not  have  been  more  overcome.  He  turned  perfectly 
livid,  took  a  long  breath,  tottered  backwards  and. sat 
down  again.  The  all-seeing  eyes  of  the  Cardinal  were 
fixed  upon  him;  he   did  not  speak  but   watched  his 


12  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

master.  Louis  for  some  moments  did  not  raise  his 
head;  then  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  with  much 
effort,  in  a  strangely  different  voice,  asked  faintly — 

"Does  Mademoiselle  de  Lafayette  herself  desire 
this  marriage?" 

Richelieu  had  turned  away,  and  affecting  to  be 
busied  with  some  books  and  papers  lying  on  the 
table,  replied  in  an  indifferent  manner — 

"As  yet,  Sire,  we  are  unacquainted  with  the 
lady's  sentiments;  but,  as  I  am  informed  she  has 
no  other  attachment,  I  cannot  but  believe  such  an 
alliance  as  that  of  my  cousin  will  be  acceptable  to 
her." 

The  nervous  spasm  with  which  it  was  evident  the 
King  had  awaited  this  reply  instantly  relaxed.  The 
colour  returned  to  his  cheeks,  his  eyes  brightened, 
and  he  stood  up — 

"Before  I  can  decide  anything,"  said  he,  "I  must 
know  Mademoiselle  de  Lafayette's  feelings;  acquaint 
me  with  them  speedily." 

He  spoke  in  a  firm,  decided  way,  very  unusual 
with  him. 

The  Cardinal  drew  his  own  conclusions. 
**•***■* 

By-and-byChavigny  informed  Richelieu  that  Made- 
moiselle de  Lafayette  had  at  once,  and  unhesitatingly, 
refused  the  hand  of  the  Count.  Richelieu  only 
smiled.  "I  knew  it.  The  King,  my  good  Chavigny, 
is  in  love  with  her  himself  She  returns  it.  They 
understand  each  other.  Chavigny,  I  must  see  this 
foolish  girl,  who  ventures  to  mix  herself  up  with  his 
Majesty.  I  must  personally  acquaint  myself  with  her 
feelings." 


TEMPTED.  1 3 

"Your  Eminence  will  find  it  most  difficult  to  speak 
with  her  in  private.  The  Duchesse  de  Sennecy  pro- 
poses giving  a  masked  ball,  at  which  her  Majesty 
and  the  Court  will  be  present;  would  that  suit  your 
plans?" 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  Richelieu.  '-When  I  speak 
there  must  be  no  mask.  I  must  study  her  counte- 
nance. She  is  young  and  disingenuous.  I  shall  read 
her  inmost  thoughts.  She  has  not  been  long  enough 
at  Court  to  have  learnt  dissimulation.  I  must  see  her 
before  the  King  leaves  Paris.  We  can  meet  at  my 
niece's,  the  Duchesse  de  Combalet." 
§,  "Mademoiselle  de  Lafayette  could  only  feel 
honoured  by  such  a  summons  from  your  Eminence," 
replied  Chavigny. 

"Yes,  I  fancy  she  will  accept  the  offers  I  shall 
make  her,  unless  she  is  an  absolute  idiot." 

Mademoiselle  de  Lafayette  was  duly  invited  to  a 
dijeuner  at  the  Palais  Cardinal  by  the  Duchesse  de 
Combalet,  who  received  her  alone.  During  breakfast 
her  hostess  said  everything  that  could  flatter  and 
please  her.  She  praised  her  dress  and  her  appear- 
ance. She  was  so  simple,  so  unselfish,  so  different 
from  the  other  maids  of  honour,  the  Duchess  said. 
Then  she  went  on  to  inform  her  that  she  knew  the 
Cardinal  had  the  highest  opinion  of  her;  that  he  had 
often  expressed  his  admiration  of  her  character  and 
her  person  to  herself,  the  Duchess.  "It  is  very  un- 
usual with  him,  mademoiselle,  to  speak  to  me  about 
the  Queen's  ladies;  he  is  too  much  engrossed  with 
•State  affairs,  too  serious  to  notice  them.  But  you  are 
an  exception;  you  have  made  a  deep  impression  on 
tny  uncle." 


14  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IX    FRANCE. 

Louise  bowed,  grew  red  and  white  by  turns,  and 
listened  in  wondering  silence. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  Cardinal  Richelieu 
appeared,  followed  by  two  favourite  cats.  Smiling 
benignly,  he  received  the  maid  of  honour  with  great 
condescension.  Mademoiselle  de  Lafayette  rose  at 
his  entrance,  and  was  about  to  withdraw,  when 
he  took  her  hand  and  insisted  on  her  reseating 
herself. 

The  Duchesse  de  Combalet  spoke  with  him  on 
general  subjects,  and  constantly  appealed  to  Louise 
for  her  opinion.  She  gave  it  with  her  usual  modest 
frankness.  Everything  she  said  was  applauded  bjj 
the  Cardinal.  He  put  forth  all  his  powers  to  please 
her. 

In  about  half  an  hour  a  servant  entered  and 
whispered  to  the  Duchess.  She  affected  great  annoy- 
ance at  the  interruption,  and  begged  the  Cardinal  and 
her  guest  to  excuse  her  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
while  she  gave  some  directions.  "Besides,"  said  she, 
and  she  turned  with  a  meaning  look  to  the  maid  of 
honour,  "I  know  that  his  Eminence  wants  to  have  a 
little  private  conversation  with  you  about  our  cousin 
De  la  Meilleraye,  whom  you  have  so  cruelly  refused. 
Poor  man!  he  is  in  despair.  I  shall  return  in  a  few 
minutes."  Saying  which  she  kissed  Mademoiselle  de 
Lafayette  on  both  cheeks,  and  withdrew. 

Richelieu  and  the  maid  of  honour  were  now  alone. 
The  Cardinal  was  no  longer  the  dissolute  prelate  of 
other  days,  the  adorer  of  two  queens  of  France,  the 
slave  of  Madame  de  Chevreuse,  the  lover  of  Marion* 
de  rOrme.  The  life  of  labour  he  led  would  have 
long  ago  killed  any  but  a  man  of  his  iron  will  and 


TEMPTED.  15 

calm  temperament.  He  never  slept  more  than  three 
hours  at  a  time,  and  literally  worked  day  and  night. 
At  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  was  astir,  ready  to 
receive  spies,  generals,  and  ministers,  suppliants,  and 
princes,  who  were  already  waiting  in  the  ante-room. 
He  was  as  active  as  a  Roman  senator,  with  a  hundred 
clients  assembled  in  his  portico.  His  cheeks  were 
pinched  and  sunken;  his  face  sallow;  his  thin  lips 
colourless;  his  brow,  a  network  of  those  fine  wrinkles 
that  come  of  excessive  thought.  Even  his  eyes  were 
dull,  and  half  concealed  by  his  eyelids,  though  on  oc- 
casions they  would  still  shoot  forth  sparks  of  fire.  The 
straight  hair  that  lay  upon  his  forehead,  under  his  red 
calotte,  was  scanty  and  almost  white.  Altogether,  his 
appearance  was  that  of  a  man  physically  worn-out,  and 
indicative  of  his  painful  illness  and  somewhat  pre- 
mature death.  But  the  spirit  of  the  man  was  strong 
within  him,  and  a  consciousness  of  latent  power  dis- 
closed itself  in  every  feature. 

As  he  leant  back  in  a  spacious  arm-chair,  the  two 
cats  nestled  on  his  knees,  he  bent  his  half-closed 
eyes  upon  Louise  with  almost  feline  cunning.  Those 
half-closed  eyes  alone  betrayed  his  nature;  other- 
wise, his  countenance  expressed  nothing  but  tranquil 
enjoyment. 

"Mademoiselle  de  Lafayette,"  he  said  in  a  soft, 
musical  voice  that  struck  pleasantly  upon  the  ear,  "I 
have  both  to  reproach  you  and  to  thank  you."  Louise 
looked  at  him  with  surprise.  "Yes,  I  thank  you  for 
the  favour  with  which  I  hear  you  speak  of  me;  and  I 
reproach  you  for  having  hitherto  concealed  from  me 
your  good  opinion.  I  am  desirous  to  see  you  become 
a  member   of  my  family.     I  hope  you  will  marry  my 


1 6  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

cousin.  But,  believe  me,  the  ties  of  gratitude  are 
stronger  with  me  than  those  of  blood.  Mademoiselle, 
I  wish  to  be  your  friend."  Louise  bowed  her  head 
with  great  respect,  but  felt  bewildered. 

Richelieu  piqued  himself  on  being  a  great  phy- 
siognomist. He  had  made  a  special  study  of  the 
human  countenance.  He  saw  that  the  face  of  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Lafayette  was  totally  untroubled.  Her 
perfect  self-possession  astonished  him.  The  phrase  he 
had  uttered- — "I  wish  to  be  your  friend,"  solemn  words, 
indeed,  from  the  mouth  of  Richelieu  —  had  caused 
in  her  no  change  of  expression!  Her  composed 
demeanour  was,  in  the  eyes  of  the  Cardinal,  an  ad- 
ditional reason  for  securing  her  as  a  partisan.  He 
had  before  much  desired  to  gain  her  to  himself,  but 
he  now  came  to  attach  an  immense  importance  to 
success. 

"I  am  very  grateful  for  your  Eminence's  kind  ex- 
pressions," said  Louise  at  last,  with  great  modesty, 
but  with  equal  firmness;  "but  I  do  not  wish  to  marry. 
If  the  offer  of  your  friendship  involves  any  sacrifice 
of  my  freedom,  I  must,  with  sorrow,  decline  it.  I 
seek  nothing,  your  Eminence.  I  need  no  protection." 
There  was  a  quiet  dignity  in  her  words  and  manner 
that  took  the  Cardinal  aback.  He  said  nothing;  but 
his  eyes,  now  fully  open  and  glistening,  rested  on  the 
maid  of  honour  with  surprise  and  displeasure. 

Yet  the  real  loftiness  of  soul  she  displayed,  the 
indifference  with  which  she  ignored  his  offers,  ap- 
peared to  him  so  unaccountable  that  he  could  only 
imagine  she  wished  to  extract  from  him  some  terms 
more  definite  and  decided.  This  idea  gave  him 
courage  to  recommence  the  attack. 


TEMPTED.  1 7 

"Let  US  be  frank,"  said  he,  smiling.    "I  know  all." 

"VV'hat  do  you  mean,  monseigneur'?" 

"The  King  loves  you.  The  purity  of  his  heart 
and  his  high  principles  may  allow  you  to  confess  it. 
He  loves  you.  And  his  interest,  as  well  as  your  own, 
requires  that  we  should  be  friends." 

Mademoiselle  de  Lafayette  grew  very  pale;  she 
trembled,  but  did  not  for  a  moment  lose  her  presence 
of  mind.  "To  what  sort  of  friendship  does  your 
Eminence  alludel" 

"An  entire  confidence  on  your  part,  and  an  active 
acknowledgment  on  mine." 

The  Cardinal  was  on  the  point  of  promising  her 
titles,  estates,  and  pensions;  but  Mademoiselle  de  La- 
fayette, who,  with  downcast  eyes,  listened  to  him  in 
silence,  all  at  once  looked  up  fixedly  into  his  face. 
This  look  stopped  him  short. 

"Your  Eminence,"  said  she,  "can  only  wish  me 
to  give  my  personal  confidence.  In  honour  I  could 
promise  no  other.  But  I  have  no  secrets,  no  con- 
cealments. I  am  without  ambition,  I  desire  no  favour. 
Besides,  I  am  sure  that  your  Eminence  will  at  once 
understand  me  when  I  say — that,  if  ever  it  were  the 
pleasure  of  his  Majesty  to  repose  confidence  in  me — 
there  is  no  temptation,  no  power  upon  earth,  that  would 
induce  me  to  betray  it."  As  she  spoke,  she  looked 
straight  at  the  Cardinal.  The  colour  returned  to  her 
cheeks,  and  she  sat  erect — gentle,  yet  infinitely  bold. 

Richelieu  reddened,  but  he  suppressed  his  rising 
indignation.  "The  confidence  of  a  great  King,"  re- 
plied he  solemnly,  a  dark  fire  darting  from  his  eyes, 
"can  only  be  properly  accepted  when  the  person  to 
whom  it  is  addressed  is  capable  of  offerin-g  real  as- 

Old  Court  Life  in  France.    II.  2 


l8  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   FRANCE. 

sistance  to  the  sovereign.  I  propose,  Mademoiselle 
de  Lafayette,  to  render  you  capable  of  imparting  such 
assistance.  Whatever  may  be  your  natural  sense  and 
penetration,  this  is  an  occasion  in  which  experience 
alone  is  valuable." 

"But  does  not  your  Eminence  think  that  rectitude 
of  purpose " 

"It  is  evident  that  you  are  little  versed  in  the  in- 
trigues of  courts,  mademoiselle,"  answered  he  loftily, 
eyeing  her  with  haughty  disdain.  "Perhaps  some  day 
you  will  discover  that  the  offer  I  have  made  you  of 
my  esteem  and  assistance  is  not  to  be  despised." 

"No  one  can  attach  a  higher  value  than  I  do  to 
the  good  opinion  of  your  Eminence,"  interposed  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Lafayette  with  warmth;  "but  I  do  not 
think  you  have  at  all  proved  it  in  what  you  have 
just  said.  Although  I  think  I  deserve  it,"  she  added 
timidly. 

The  Cardinal  contemplated  her  attentively  for  some 
moments.  His  face  was  set,  his  eyes  flashed,  and  his 
hands  which  were  clenched  rested  on  his  knees.  "I 
have  only  one  word  more  to  add,"  said  he  in  an 
angry  voice.  "Any  idea  of  favour  with  the  King 
without  my  support  is  a  delusion."  He  was  rapidly 
losing  self-restraint.  This  girl  had  lashed  him  into  a 
fury.     She  saw  it,  but  felt  no  fear. 

"Your  Eminence,  I  think  only  of  my  duty,"  she 
replied  with  firmness.  "I  fear  no  threats.  I  can  make 
no  promise." 

At  these  words  the  Cardinal  rose.  His  face  was 
swollen  with  passion;  a  wicked  fire  gleamed  in  his 
eyes;  her  coolness  transported  him  beyond  endurance. 
"Once  more,  Mademoiselle   de  Lafayette,   remember 


THE  KEEPER   OF  THE  ROYAL   CONSCIENCE.  1 9 

what  I  say. — My  resolutions  are  unalterable;  I  trample 
down  everything.  Without  my  assistance,  beware! 
Think  of  the  future.  Recall  the  past.  My  enemies 
arc  rotting  in  their  graves — my  friends  rule  France." 
Then,  speaking  more  calmly,  he  added,  "You  are  too 
great  a  fool  to  understand  what  you  are  doing.  I 
can  pardon  your  presumption,  however,  because  I 
know  how  to  cure  it.  Mademoiselle  de  Lafayette,  you 
may  withdraw." 

CHAPTER  II. 

The  Keeper  of  the  Royal  Conscience. 

Richelieu,  thoroughly  exasperated,  determined  to 
crush  the  girl  who  had  dared  to  brave  him.  He  called 
to  his  aid  his  creature  Chavigny.  Chavigny  was  in- 
triguing, acute,  and  superficial;  an  admirable  tool — 
for  he  originated  nothing.  Years  ago  he  had  sold 
himself  to  Richelieu,  but  as  he  always  went  out  of  his 
way  to  abuse  him,  the  connection  was  not  suspected. 
Under  the  direction  of  the  Cardinal,  he  had  entirely 
gained  the  King's  confidence.  His  easy  goodnature 
encouraged  the  shy  Louis  to  tell  him  all  his  secrets, 
and  to  consult  him  in  all  his  difficulties. 

Chavigny,  who  up  to  this  time  had  attached  little 
importance  to  the  King's  inclination  for  the  new  maid 
of  honour,  looking  upon  it  simply  as  a  passing  ad- 
miration for  an  attractive  girl,  too  inexperienced  to 
take  advantage  of  his  favour,  upon  being  questioned, 
informed  Richelieu  that  the  King  wrote  to  her  daily, 
and  that  she  replied  as  often.  Richelieu  at  once 
resolved  on  his  course  of  action.  He  would  in  future 
see   the  correspondence   himself.     Each  letter  was  to 


20  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

be  skilfully  unsealed  by  his  secretary,  Desmaret,  and 
read,  before  it  was  delivered. 

It  was  not  possible  for  even  the  hard,  stern  Richelieu 
to  peruse  these  letters  unmoved.  He  had  been  once 
young  and  passionate  himself.  He  could  not  but  ap- 
preciate the  delicacy  and  eloquence  with  which  the 
King  veiled  his  passion,  and  softened  intense  love  into 
the  semblance  of  friendship.  Nor  could  he  avoid 
feeling  some  admiration  for  the  sweet  and  simple  na- 
ture that  breathed  in  every  line  written  by  the  maid 
of  honour.  Both  were  evidently  ignorant  of  the  ardour 
of  their  mutual  attachment.  What  was  to  be  done? 
He  must  consult  the  King's  confessor. 

Father  Caussin,  a  Jesuit,  had  been  only  nine  months 
confessor  to  the  King.  He  was  learned,  conscientious, 
and  guileless.  Richelieu  had  selected  him  for  this  im- 
portant post  in  the  belief  that  he  would  assume  no 
political  influence  over  his  royal  penitent.  The  General 
of  the  order  had  objected  to  his  appointment  on  the 
same  grounds.  In  person  Caussin  was  tall  and  spare. 
His  long  black  cassock  hung  about  his  thin  figure  in 
heavy  folds.  His  face  was  pale  and  emaciated.  Yet 
a  kindly  smile  played  about  his  mouth,  and  his  black 
eyes  beamed  with  benevolence.  Such  was  the  ec- 
clesiastic who  seated  himself  opposite  to  Richelieu. 

"My  father,"  said  the  Cardinal,  saluting  him  stiffly, 
and  leaning  forward  and  laying  his  hands  on  some 
papers  placed  beside  him  on  a  table,  as  though  they 
related  to  what  he  was  about  to  say. — "I  have  sum- 
moned you  on  a  very  grave  matter."  Nothing  could 
be  more  solemn  than  the  Cardinal's  voice  and  manner. 
The  pleasant  smile  faded  at  once  out  of  the  con- 
fessor's face.     He  became  as  grave,  if  not  as  stern,  as 


THE  KEEPER  OF  THE  ROYAL  CONSCIENCE.     21 

the  Cardinal,  leant  his  head  upon  his  bony  hand,  and 
turned  his  eyes  intently  upon  him.  "Circumstances 
have  come  to  my  knowledge,"  continued  Richelieu, 
"which,  in  my  opinion,  justify  me  in  asking  you  a 
very  searching  question."  Caussin  moved  uneasily, 
and  in  a  somewhat  troubled  manner  interrupted  him, 

"Your  Eminence  will  not,  I  trust,  desire  to  trench 
upon  the  privacy  of  my  office, — for  in  that  case  I 
could  not  satisfy  you." 

Richelieu  waved  his  hand  impatiently,  placed  one 
knee  over  the  other  with  great  deliberation,  and  leant 
back  in  his  chair.  "My  father,  I  am  surprised  at  your 
insinuation.  We  are  both  Churchmen,  and,  I  presume, 
understand  our  respective  duties.  The  question  that 
I  would  ask  is  one  to  which  you  may  freely  reply. 
Does  it  appear  to  you  that  his  Majesty  has  of  late 
shown  indifference  in  his  spiritual  duties'?"  Caussin 
drew  a  long  breath,  and,  though  relieved,  was  evidently 
unwilling  to  answer. 

"Pardon  me,  my  father,"  again  spoke  the  Cardinal, 
a  slight  tone  of  asperity  perceptible  in  his  mellow 
voice,  "I  ask  you  this  question  entirely  in  the  interest 
of  the  holy  order  to  which  you  belong.  Many  bene- 
fices have  fallen  vacant  ■  lately,  and  it  is  possible, — it 
is  possible,  I  repeat,  that  I  may  advise  his  Majesty  to 
fill  up  some  of  them  from  the  ranks  of  the  Company 
of  Jesus."  His  half-closed  eyes  rested  significantly  on 
Father  Caussin  as  he  said  these  words. 

Caussin  listened  unmoved.  "There  are,  doubt- 
less," said  he,  "many  members  of  our  order  who 
would  do  honour  to  your  selection,  Cardinal.  For 
myself,  I  want  no  preferment; — indeed,   I  should  de- 


22  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

cline  it."  He  spoke  with  the  frankness  of  perfect 
sincerity.  * 

Richelieu  looked  down,  and  worked  the  points  of  his 
fingers  impatiently  on  the  table.  His  hands  were 
singularly  white  and  shapely,  with  taper  fingers.  As 
a  young  man  he  had  loved  to  display  them;  the  habit 
had  remained  with  him  when  he  was  thoughtful  or 
annoyed.    "Well,  my  father,"  said  he,  "your  answer?" 

Caussin  eyed  the  Cardinal  suspiciously, — "I  am 
happy  to  reassure  your  Eminence;  his  Majesty  is,  as 
usual  in  the  most  pious  sentiments." 

"Hum! — that  is  strange,  very  strange;  I  fear  that 
the  benevolence  of  your  nature,  my  father — "  Caussin 
drew  himself  up,  and  a  look  as  much  approaching 
defiance  as  it  was  possible  for  him  to  assume  passed 
into  his  pleasant  face.  Richelieu  did  not  finish  the 
offensive  sentence.  "It  is  strange,"  he  went  on  to 
say,  "for  I  have  reason  to  know — I  ask  you  for  no  in- 
formation, reverend  father — that  his  Majesty's  feelings 
are  engaged  in  a  mundane  passion  which,  if  encou- 
raged, may  lead  him  from  those  precepts  and  exer- 
cises in  which  he  has  hitherto  lived  in  obedience  to 
the  Church."  * 

"To  what  passion  do  you  allude?"  asked  Caussin 
cautiously. 

"To  the  infatuation  his  Majesty  evinces  for  the 
new  maid  of  honour,  Louise  de  Lafayette.  The  lady 
is  self-willed  and  romantic.  She  may  lead  him  into 
deadly  sin." 

Caussin  started.  "I  apprehend  nothing  of  the  kind," 
replied  he  drily. 

"True,  my  father,  but  that  is  a  matter  of  opinion. 
I  think    differently.      Absolution,    after    repentance," 


THE  KEEPER  OF  THE  ROYAL  CONSCIENCE.  23 

continued  the  Cardinal  pompously,  "may  wash  out 
even  crime,  but  it  is  for  us, — you,  his  Majesty's  con- 
fessor, and  I,  his  minister,  both  faithful  servants  of 
the  Holy  Father," — Caussin  looked  hard  at  the  Car- 
dinal, who  was  by  no  means  considered  orthodox  at 
Rome, — "it  is  for  us  to  guard  him  from  even  the 
semblance  of  evil.  I  have  sent  for  you,  my  father,  to 
assist  me  in  placing  Louise  de  Lafayette  in  a  convent. 
It  will  be  at  least  a  measure  of  precaution.  I  shall 
require  all  your  help,  my  father;  will  you  give  it  me?" 
Richelieu,  as  he  asked  this  important  question,  nar- 
rowly observed  Caussin  from  under  his  drooping  eye- 
lids. The  confessor  was  evidently  embarrassed.  His 
kindly  countenance  was  troubled;  and  he  was  some 
time  in  answering. 

"To  dedicate  a  young  and  pure  soul  to  God,"  he 
replied,  at  length,  with  evident  hesitation,  "is  truly  an 
acceptable  work;  but  has  your  Eminence  considered 
that  the  lady  in  question  is  of  the  most  blameless 
life,  and  that  by  her  example  and  influence  his  Ma- 
jesty may  be  kept  in  that  path  of  obedience  and  faith 
which  some  other  attachment  might  not  insure?"  As 
he  asked  this  question  Caussin  leaned  forwards  to- 
wards Richelieu,  speaking  earnestly. 

"Father  Caussin,"  said  the  Cardinal  in  his  hardest 
manner,  and  motioning  with  his  hand  as  though  com- 
manding special  attention,  "we  must  look  in  this 
matter  beyond  his  Majesty's  feelings.  I  have  good 
reason  for  alarm.  A  crisis  is  impending,"  and  he 
turned  again  to  the  papers  lying  on  the  table  with  a 
significant  air.  "If  Louise  de  Lafayette  has  any  vo- 
cation, let  her  be  advised  to  encourage  it.  Consider 
in  what  manner  you  can  best  bend  the  King's  will  to 


24  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

comply.  You  tell  me  the  lady  is  a  good  Catholic;  I 
rejoice  to  hear  it.  She  comes  of  a  family  of  heretics. 
She  may  be  sincere,  though  I  much  doubt  it.  At  all 
events,  she  must  be  removed;  simply  as  a  matter  of 
precaution,  my  father,  I  repeat,  she  must  be  removed. 
Let  me  beg  you  to  consult  the  General  of  your  order 
upon  this  matter  immediately.  Understand  me,  I  am 
advising  this  simply  as  a  matter  of  precaution,  nothing 
more."  All  this  time  Caussin  had  listened  intently  to 
the  Cardinal.  The  troubled  look  on  his  face  had 
deepened  into  one  of  infinite  sadness.  His  brow  was 
knit,  but  there  were  doubt  and  hesitation  in  his 
manner. 

"I  can  only  consent  to  assist  your  Eminence,"  he 
replied,  in  a  low  voice,  after  some  moments  of  deep 
thought,  "on  the  condition  that  the  lady  herself  freely 
consents.  I  can  permit  no  violence  to  be  done  to  her 
inclinations,  nor  to  the  will  of  his  Majesty.  If  the 
lady  is  ready  to  offer  up  herself  to  the  Church  through 
my  means,  it  will  doubtless  redound  to  the  credit  of 
our  order;  but  she  shall  not  be  forced." 

"  Certainly  not,  certainly  not,"  interposed  Richelieu, 
in  a  much  more  affable  tone.  "I  do  not  know  why 
your  reverence  should  start  such  a  supposition." 

"I  will  consult  our  General,  Cardinal,"  continued 
Caussin;  "but  I  am  bound  to  say  that  the  influence  the 
lady  has  hitherto  exercised  has  been  most  legitimate, 
most  orthodox,  altogether  in  favour  of  our  order,  to 
which  she  is  devoted,  and  of  the  Church.  She  is  a 
most  pious  lady." 

"All  the  more  fit  for  the  privilege  I  propose  to 
bestow  upon  her,"  answered  Richelieu,  with  unction; 
"she  will  be  safe  from  temptation  within  the  bosom 


THE  KEEPER  OF  THE  ROYAL  CONSCIENCE.  25 

of  the  Church,  a  blessing  we,  my  father," — and  Riche- 
lieu affected  to  heave  a  deep  sigh,  and  cast  up  his 
eyes  to  heaven,  "we,  who  live  in  the  world,  cannot 
attain.  AVe  act  then  in  concert,  my  father,"  he  added 
quickly,  in  his  usual  manner,  "we  act  for  the  good  of 
his  Majesty's  soul?" 

Caussin  bowed  acquiescence,  but  mistrust  and 
perplexity  were  written  upon  every  line  of  his  honest 
face,  as  he  observed  the  evident  satisfaction  evinced 
by  the  Cardinal  at  his  compliance. 

Richelieu  rose:  "We  will  force  no  one's  inclina- 
tion, my  father,"  he  said  blandly,  "but  all  possibility 
of  scandal  must  be  removed.  You  must  at  once  pre- 
pare his  Majesty.  It  will  be  a  good  work,  and  v.ill 
greatly  recommend  you  to  your  order."  Caussin,  with 
a  look  of  the  deepest  concern,  bowed  profoundly  ar,d 
withdrew.  When  he  was  alone,  the  Cardinal  re-seated 
himself  and  fell  into  a  deep  muse.  "Now,"  said  he, 
at  length,  speaking  to  himself,  "her  fate  is  sealed.  I 
will  take  care  that  her  vocation  shall  be  perfect.  This 
presumptuous  girl  shall  soon  come  to  rejoice,  ay,  re- 
joice, that  she  is  permitted  to  take  refuge  in  a  con- 
vent. As  for  Caussin,  he  is  a  fool.  I  must  remove 
him  immediately." 

Richelieu,  as  he  said  of  himself,  never  halted  in 
his  resolves.  Caussin  was  shortly  sent  off  by  a  lettre 
de  cachet  to  Rennes,  narrowly  escaping  an  intimation 
from  the  Cardihal  to  his  Superior  that  it  would  be 
well  to  exercise  his  devotion  to  the  order  as  a  mis- 
sionary in  Canada. 


26  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 


CHAPTER   III. 

A  Noble  Resolve. 

The  Court  had  removed  from  the  Louvre  to  Saint- 
Germain,  always  the  favourite  abode  of  the  melan- 
choly monarch. 

Louis  suffered  tortures  from  the  galling  restraints 
his  position  entailed  upon  him  in  his  intercourse  with 
Mademoiselle  de  Lafayette.  He  rarely  saw  her  alone. 
When  he  addressed  her,  he  was  conscious  that  every 
eye  was  fixed  upon  them.  Their  correspondence,  car- 
ried on  by  means  of  Chavigny,  was,  he  felt,  full  of 
danger.  His  only  comforter  in  his  manifold  troubles 
was  this  same  treacherous  Chavigny.  Prompted  by 
the  Cardinal,  Chavigny  urged  the  King,  on  every 
possible  occasion,  to  make  some  arrangement  with 
Mademoiselle  de  Lafayette  to  meet  in  private.  "If 
she  loves  you,"  said  this  unworthy  tool,  "if  you 
really  possess  her  heart,  she  will  long  to  meet  your 
Majesty  with  greater  freedom  as  much  as  you  can  do. 
It  is  for  you  to  make  some  such  proposal  to  her.  Do 
it.  Sire;  do  it  without  delay,  or  I  assure  you  the  lady 
will  think  you  careless  and  indifferent."  Thus  spoke 
Chavigny.  Louis  listened,  meditated  on  what  he 
said,  and  was  convinced.  He  gave  himself  up  to  the 
most  entrancing  day-dreams. 

The  season  was  summer.  The  weather  was  hot, 
and  the  tall  windows  of  the  great  saloon  were  thrown 
open.  The  Court  had  gathered  round  the  Queen,  who 
was  engaged  in  a  lively  conversation  with  Mademoi- 
selle de  Montpensier,  the  young  daughter  of  the  Due 
d'Orl^ans.    Seeing  that  her  services  were  not  required, 


A  XOBLE  RESOLVE.  2"] 

Louise  de  Lafayette,  pensive  and  silent,  stole  away  to 
the  balcony  outside  the  windows.  She  stood  alone, 
lost  in  her  own  thoughts.  With  noiseless  steps  Louis 
approached  her.  He  lent  by  her  side  over  the  balus- 
trade, bending  his  eyes  on  the  broad  plains  towards 
Paris. 

"You  are  thoughtful.  Sire,"  said  Louise  timidly. 
"Will  you  tell  me  your  thoughts?" 

"If  I  do,"  replied  Louis,  casting  a  fond  glance 
upon  her,  "will  you  trust  me  with  yours?" 

A  delicious  tremor  passed  through  her  whole  frame. 
She  cast  down  her  large  grey  eyes,  and  smiled.  "Indeed 
I  trust  you,  Sire,"  she  murmured  softly;  "you  know 
I  do." 

"But  trust  me  more, — let  our  communion  be  more 
intimate.  A  brother's  love  is  not  more  pure  than 
mine,"  whispered  the  King;  "but,"  and  he  hesitated 
and  blushed,  "I  have  never  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  a 
brother."  Louise  raised  her  eyes  inquiringly.  The 
King  was  greatly  confused.  "A  brother — "  and  he 
stopped.  Then,  seeing  her  earnest  look  of  curiosity — 
"A  brother,"  he  repeated,  "salutes  his  sister:  I  have 
never  enjoyed  that  privilege,  Louise."  He  was  scarcely 
audible.  "Let  my  self-denial,  at  least,  secure  me  all 
your  confidence." 

"Oh,  Sire,  you  have  it,  entire  and  unreserved;  you 
know  it.  I  might  distrust  myself,  but  you,  Sire,  never, 
never!" 

"How  happy  you  make  me!"  returned  the  King, 
and  a  sickly  smile  overspread  his  haggard  face.  "I 
understand — I  appreciate  your  attachment  to  me;  but 
oh,  mademoiselle,  how  can  my  feeble  words  express 
mine  to  youl — how  can  I  describe  that  which  is  without 


28  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

bounds — without  limit?  You  can  live  without  me. 
You  can  find  solace  in  your  own  perfection,  in  the 
admiration  of  those  around  you — but  I,  I  am  nothing 
without  you.  I  am  a  mere  blank — a  blot  upon  a 
luxurious  Court — an  offence  to  my  superb  wife.  No 
one  cares  for  my  happiness — not  even  for  my  existence, 
but  you.  When  I  cannot  approach  you,  I  am  over- 
come by  despair.  Oh,  Louise,  give  yourself  up  to 
me,  in  pity — without  fear,  without  restraint.  Let  me 
see  you  every  day, — let  me  be  encouraged  by  your 
words,  led  by  your  counsels,  soothed  by  your  pity, 
blessed  by  your  sight.  You  say  you  do  not  doubt  me. 
What  then  do  you  fear?" 

The  maid  of  honour  looked  at  him  with  tearful 
e)'^es.  His  earnestness,  his  desolation,  his  entreaties, 
melted  her  heart.  Her  unconscious  love  made  her 
pulses  beat  as  quickly  as  his  own. 

"You  know  that  I  am  devoted  to  you, — what  more 
can  I  say?"  she  whispered  softly. 

"I  have  a  favour  to  ask  you,"  said  Louis  anxiously, 
— "a  favour  so  great  I  hesitate  to  name  it."  He  was 
greatly  agitated.  At  this  moment  the  passionate  love 
he  felt  animated  him  with  new  life,  and  lent  a  charm 
to  his  countenance  it  had  never  borne  before. 

"A  favour,  Sire? — it  is  granted  before  you  speak. 
How  is  it  that  you  have  concealed  it  from  me?" 

"Then  I  am  satisfied,"- — the  King  heaved  a  sigh 
of  relief, — "what  I  ask  depends  entirely  on  you.  You 
will  grant  it." 

"Am  I  to  promise?" 

"Well,  only  give  me  your  word;   that  is   enough." 

"Sire,   I  give  you  my  word;   from  the  bottom  of 


A  NOBLE  RESOLVE.  2g 

my  heart,  I  give  you  my  word.  Tell  me  what  it  is 
you  desire."  And  she  raised  her  face  towards  the  King, 
who  contemplated  her  with  silent  rapture. 

"Not  now — not  now,"  murmured  he,  in  a  falter- 
ing voice;  "I  dare  not;  it  would  require  too  long  an 
explanation, — we  might  be  interrupted,"  and  he  turned 
and  glanced  at  the  scene  behind  him,  —  at  Anne  of 
Austria,  blazing  with  diamonds,  radiant  with  regal 
beauty,  her  silvery  laugh  surmounting  the  hum  of  con- 
versation. He  saw  the  brilliant  crowd  that  thronged 
around  her  where  she  sat.  Great  princes,  illustrious 
ministers,  historic  nobles,  chivalric  soldiers,  grave  di- 
plomatists, stately  matrons,  ministers  of  state,  her  ladies 
in  waiting,  and  the  five  other  maids  of  honour,  in  the 
glory  of  golden  youth.  He  saw  the  dazzling  lights, 
the  fluttering  feathers,  the  gorgeous  robes,  the  sparkling 
jewels,  standing  out  from  the  painted  walls,  —  all  the 
glamour  of  a  luxurious  Court.  Then  he  gazed  at  the 
sweet  face  of  the  lonely  girl  whose  loving  eyes  were 
bent  upon  him  awaiting  his  reply,  —  his  soul  sank 
within  him. 

"Would  to  God  I  were  not  King  of  France,"  he 
exclaimed  abruptly,  following  the  tenor  of  his  thoughts. 
Then,  seeing  her  wonder  at  this  sudden  outburst,  he 
added,  "The  favour  I  ask  of  you  shall  be  made  known 
to  you  in  writing.  This  evening  you  shall  receive  a 
letter  from  me;  but," — and  he  drew  closer  to  her  and 
spoke  almost  fiercely,  —  "remember  you  have  pledged 
yourself  to  me — you  cannot,  you  dare  not  withdraw 
your  word.  If  you  do," — and  an  agonized  look  came 
into  his  face,  —  "you  will  drive  me  to  madness." 
Saying  these  words,  he  suddenly  disappeared.  She 
was  again  left  standing  alone  on  the  balcony. 


30  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

Louise  de  Lafayette  was  startled,  but  not  alarmed. 
The  notion  that  the  King  was  capable  of  making  any 
indecorous  proposition  to  her  never  for  a  moment 
occurred  to  her;  at  the  same  time  she  felt  the  utmost 
curiosity  to  know  what  this  secret  might  be.  She 
formed  a  thousand  different  conjectures,  each  further 
than  the  other  from  the  truth.  On  entering  her  room 
at  night,  she  found  a  letter  from  the  King.  She  hastily 
tore  it  open,  and  read  as  follows:  — 

"I  have  long  adored  you,  and  you  only.  During 
the  whole  time  that  you  have  been  at  Court,  I  have 
been  able  but  thrice  to  address  you  alone,  and  to 
chance  only  did  I  even  then  owe  that  inexpressible 
privilege.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  endure  this 
restraint  any  longer.  If  you  feel  as  I  do,  you  will  not 
desire  it.  I  have  therefore  commanded  that  my 
hunting-lodge  at  Versailles  should  be  arranged  as 
much  as  possible  in  accordance  with  your  taste. 
There  is  a  garden  laid  out,  filled  with  the  flowers  you 
love;  there  are  secluded  lawns;  there  is  the  boundless 
forest.  Above  all,  there  is  freedom.  Come  then,  my 
Louise,  and  share  with  me  this  rural  retreat — come 
where  we  can  meet,  unrestrained  by  the  formalities  of 
my  Court.  Bring  with  you  any  friend  you  please.  At 
Versailles  I  hope  to  spend  part  of  every  week  in  your 
company.  My  happiness  will  be  perfect;  you  will  find 
me  the  most  grateful  of  men.  You  will  have  nothing 
to  fear.  Do  you  dread  calumny'?  Who  would  dare 
to  attack  a  lady  as  pure  as  yourself?  May  I  not  claim 
your  consent  when  I  rely  on  your  promise  to  grant 
whatever  I  ask?  I  feel  that  you  cannot  deny  me,  for 
you  have  repeated  a  thousand  times  that  you  trust  my 
principles.     You  cannot  doubt  my  honour.    To  refuse 


A  NOBLE  RESOLVE.  31 

me  would  only  be  to  insult  me.  Surely,  Louise,  you 
would  not  do  that!  It  would  wound  me  to  the  very 
soul.     It  would   destroy  every  hope  of  my  future  life. 

(Signed)  "Louis." 

When  Mademoiselle  de  Lafayette  read  this  artful 
letter,  which  had  been  composed  by  Chavigny  under 
the  direction  of  Richelieu,  and  copied  out  by  the 
King,  she  was  utterly  confounded.  The  fatal  veil 
which  had  so  long  concealed  the  truth  fell  from  her 
eyes.  Even  to  a  girl  pure  and  simple  as  herself,  all 
further  delusion  was  impossible.  This  letter  and  the 
feelings  that  dictated  it  were  not  to  be  misunderstood. 

"Merciful  heavens!"  cried  she,  clasping  her  hands, 
"with  what  a  tone  of  authority,  with  what  assurance, 
he  proposes  to  dishonour  me!  This,  then,  is  the 
attachment  I  believed  to  be  so  pure!  What!  does  he, 
the  husband  of  the  Queen  of  France,  suppose  that  I 
would  encourage  a  guilty  passion?  Wretch  that  I  am! 
Instead  of  helping  him,  I  have  led  him  into  sin!  I  had 
no  right  to  engross  his  thoughts.  He  is  already 
estranged  from  his  wife,  and  I  have  severed  them  still 
further!  O  God!  what  will  the  Queen  think  of  me? 
How  can  I  atone  for  this  horrible  sin]  I  must — I  will 
— reconcile  them.  Then  God  may  forgive  my  in- 
voluntary crime!" 

Again  and  again,  with  tears  streaming  down  her 
cheeks,  she  read  and  re-read  the  letter.  She  pressed 
the  paper  to  her  lips.  The  next  moment  she  dashed 
it  on  the  lloor  in  an  agony  of  remorse. 

"Oh,  how  can  I  reply  1"  sobbed  she.  "What  can 
I  say  to  temper  the  blow  which  must  sever  nsl  He 
will  be  in  despair — he  will  die.     But   my   reputation. 


32  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

my  honour — his  own — his  duty  to  the  Queen!  No,  I 
will  never  consent  to  such  degradation  —  my  soul 
revolts  at  the  thought!  How  gladly  would  I  sacrifice 
my  life  for  him,  but  I  cannot  commit  a  sin.  I  must 
leave  the  palace,  I  must  go — Whither?" 

As  she  listened  to  the  echo  of  her  own  words,  an 
unformed  thought  suddenly  darted  into  her  mind. 
Go — yes,  she  would  go  where  none  could  follow. 
Youth,  beauty,  wealth,  the  sacrifice  should  be  com- 
plete. She  would  prove,  even  in  separation,  how  great 
had  been  her  love.  " There  is  no  other  way"  she  said, 
speaking  aloud,  and  an  angelic  smile  lit  up  her  face. 
She  cast  herself  upon  her  knees,  and  prayed  in  peace. 
Her  prayer  finished,  she  took  up  her  pen  and  replied 
thus  to  the  King:  — 

"Your  Majesty  desires  that  we  should  no  longer 
meet  in  the  presence  of  witnesses.  Before  knowing 
what  was  required  of  me,  I  promised  to  comply.  I 
will  not  withdraw  my  word;  but  I  entreat  of  your 
Majesty  the  liberty  of  myself  selecting  the  place  where 
these  private  interviews  are  to  be  held.  When  I  have 
received  your  Majesty's  assent,  I  will  inform  you  where 
this  place  is  to  be.  In  eight  days'  time  I  shall  be 
prepared  to  receive  you.  Your  Majesty  can  then  judge 
of  the  extent  of  my  confidence,  and  of  the  unbounded 
devotion  I  feel  towards  you. 

"Louise  de  Lafayette." 


THE  SACRIFICE.  ;^^ 


CHAPTER   IV. 

The  Sacrifice. 


Next  morning,  as  soon  as  it  was  light,  Louise  sent 
for  the  King's  confessor.  She  showed  him  the  King's 
letter,  and  confided  to  him  her  resolution.  Caussin 
listened  in  silence;  but  the  kindly  old  man,  priest 
though  he  was,  could  not  restrain  his  tears  —  so 
touching  was  her  innocence,  so  heartfelt  her  sorrow. 
He  understood  the  simple  goodness  of  her  heart;  he 
trembled  at  the  sacrifice  she  was  imposing  on  herself; 
but  he  could  not  combat  her  arguments.  He  promised, 
therefore,  to  assist  in  making  the  needful  arrangements, 
and  he  pledged  himself  to  support  the  King  in  the 
trial  awaiting  him. 

The  coach  was  in  waiting  which  was  to  bear  her 
to  her  future  home.  All  at  once  she  recollected  she 
had  still  one  final  sacrifice  to  make.  The  letters  of 
the  King,  which  she  always  carried  about  her,  were 
still  intact  within  the  silken  cover  in  which  she  pre- 
served them.  She  drew  these  letters  from  her  bosom, 
and  gazed  on  them  in  silent  agony.  Her  eyes  were 
blinded  by  tears.  She  dared  not  read  them  again,  for 
she  knew  they  would  but  increase  her  grief.  As  she 
held  them  in  her  hand,  remorse  at  what  she  had  done 
preponderated  over  every  feeling.  Thus  to  have 
enthralled  a  husband  belonging  to  another  —  her 
sovereign  and  her  mistress — came  suddenly  before  her 
in  its  true  light.  She  felt  she  had  forgotten  her  duty. 
Once  more  she  kissed  the  crumpled  leaves  over  which 
her  fingers  had   so   often   passed;   she   deluged   them 

0!ei  Court  Li/e  in  France.    II.  3 


34  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

with  her  tears.  Then  she  lit  a  taper  and  set  fire  to 
the  whole. 

She  sat  immovable  before  the  burning  fragments; 
her  eyes  fixed,  her  hands  clasped.  As  the  fiame  rose, 
glistened,  and  then  melted  away  into  light  particles 
of  dust  that  the  morning  air,  blowing  in  from  the 
open  window,  bore  away  fluttering  in  the  breeze,  she 
seemed  to  look  upon  the  death  of  her  love.  "Alas!" 
cried  she,  "now  all  is  over."  Vows  of  eternal  con- 
stancy, entreaties  that  would  melt  a  heart  of  stone, 
confidence  beyond  all  limit,  affection  that  enshrouded 
her  in  folds  of  unutterable  tenderness — gone, — van- 
ished into  air!  Such  was  the  image  of  her  life:  a  life 
bright  in  promise,  gay  and  dazzling,  to  smoulder 
down  into  ashes,  too  fragile  even  to  claim  a  resting- 
place. 

Louise  de  Lafayette  wrote  a  few  lines  to  the 
Duchesse  de  Sennecy,  praying  her  to  convey  her  duti- 
ful salutations  to  her  Majesty,  and  to  request  her  dis- 
missal from  the  post  of  maid  of  honour,  which,  she 
said,  "she  felt  she  had  fulfilled  so  ill."  Then  she  ad- 
dressed the  following  note  to  the  King: — "I  request 
your  Majesty  to  meet  me  this  day  week,  at  noon,  in 
the  parlour  of  the  Convent  of  the  Daughters  of  Mary, 
in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Antoine." 

When  the  King  read  these  lines  his  heart  sank 
within  him.  The  austerity  of  the  place,  a  rendezvous 
in  a  convent  of  peculiar  sanctity,  where  he  knew  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Lafayette  always  resorted  at  the  solemn 
season  of  Lent  and  Passion  Week,  where  he  could 
only  converse  with  her  between  double  bars,  was  n  .4 
the  place  of  meeting  of  which  he  had  fondly  dreamed : 
Yet  his  natural  delicacy  made  him  fully  appreciate  tlie 


THE  SACRIFICE.  35 

modesty  of  Louise  and  the  gentle  rebuke  she  ad- 
ministered to  him  for  his  too  pressing  soUcitation  in 
naming  a  place  of  meeting.  At  the  convent,  although 
they  would  certainly  be  alone,  no  scandal  could  pos- 
sibly attach  to  the  interview.  More  than  this  he  never 
for  an  instant  imagined.  The  habits  of  piety  in  which 
Mademoiselle  de  Lafayette  lived,  and  her  frequent  re- 
treats for  religious  purposes,  raised  in  his  mind  no 
suspicion.  He  should  see  her,  and  see  her  alone,  un- 
disturbed, unwatched.  On  that  thought  he  dwelt  with 
rapture;  time  \yould,  he  hoped,  do  the  rest. 

Punctually,  at  noon,  the  King  arrived  at  the  Con- 
vent of  the  Daughters  of  Mary.  He  was  received  by 
the  Abbess  in  person,  and  conducted  into  the  parlour. 
Here  she  left  him.  A  moment  more,  a  curtain  was 
withdrawn,  and,  behind  double  bars  of  iron,  Louise 
de  Lafayette  stood  before  him.  She  wore  the  dark 
brown  robes  and  corded  girdle  of  the  order,  the  long 
white  veil  of  the  noviciate  falling  round  her  lovely 
face.  The  King  stood  transfixed,  his  eyes  riveted 
upon  her. 

"Forgive  me.  Sire,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  full  of 
sweetness,  "forgive  me  for  having  dared  to  dispose  of 
myself  without  your  leave.  But,  Sire,  a  too  fervent 
attachment  had  led  us  both  into  danger.  I  had  for- 
gotten my  duty  in  the  love  I  felt  for  you, — your  Ma- 
jesty forgot  you  were  a  husband.  That  letter,  in  which 
you  proposed  meeting  me  at  Versailles,  opened  my 
eyes  to  the  truth.  God  be  thanked,  there  was  yet 
time  for  repentance.  This  morning  I  have  taken  the 
white  veil,  and  in  a  year  I  shall  pronounce  the  final 
vows.     My  life  will  still  be  passed  with  you,  Sire;  but 

3" 


36  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

it  will  be  a  life  of  prayer."  As  she  spoke  she  smiled 
sadly,  and  awaited  his  reply. 

"Great  God!"  exclaimed  Louis  at  length,  when  he 
could  find  words.  "Is  this  a  vision'?  Are  you  an 
angel  already  glorified?"  He  sank  upon  his  knees 
before  her. 

"Rise,  Sire,"  said  she  solemnly;  "such  a  posture 
befits  neither  the  dignity  of  your  station  nor  the  sacred- 
ness  of  mine.  I  am  no  angel,  but  still  your  tender 
friend;  a  friend  who  watches  over  you,  who  only  lives 
to  remind  you  of  your  duties.  You  will  share  my  heart 
with  the  holy  virgins  among  whom  I  live,  the  saints 
in  heaven,  and  my  God.  Let  not  even  the  tomb  di- 
vide us — live.  Sire,  such  a  life  that  we  may  be  reunited 
among  the  spirits  of  the  just." 

"Oh,  Louise!"  exclaimed  Louis,  in  a  voice  choked 
with  emotion;  "Louise,  who  alone  fills  my  despairing, 
my  solitary  heart!  at  your  feet  I  abjure  all  profane,  all 
unholy  thoughts.  Speak — command  me!  my  spirit 
follows  you.  But,  alas!"  and  he  rose  to  his  feet  and 
wrung  his  hands  in  bitterest  anguish,  "what  is  to  be- 
come of  me  in  the  midst  of  my  detestable  Courf? 
Suffer  me  to  follow  your  example;  let  me  too,  within 
the  walls  of  a  cloister,  seek  that  resignation  and  cour- 
age which  make  you  so  sublime." 

"Good  heavens,  Sire!"  exclaimed  Louise  de  La- 
fayette, "what  do  I  hear?  You,  a  sovereign,  a  hus- 
band, bury  yourself  in  a  cloister!  Our  situations  are 
utterly  unlike.  I,  a  solitary  girl,  have  but  withdrawn 
'.'^rom  a  world  to  which  you  were  my  only  tie.  Your 
glory,  the  glory  of  France,  your  own  welfare,  and  the 
welfare  of  the  Queen,  are  to  you  sacred  duties.  And 
now,  Sire,  listen  to  me,"  and  she  approached  close  to 


THE  SACRIFICE.  37 

the  bars  which  divided  them ,  and  a  look  of  the  old 
melting  tenderness  passed  for  a  moment  over  her 
beautiful  face,  "Sire,  if  ever  I  have  been  dear  to  you, 
listen.  The  sin  for  which  I  feel  most  poignant  sor- 
row— the  sin  which  years ,  nay,  a  life  of  expiation  can- 
not wipe  out — is — that  I  have  by  my  selfish,  my  miser- 
able attachment,  alienated  you  from  the  Queen."  Louis 
was  about  to  interrupt  her,  but  she  signed  to  him  to 
be  silent.  "I  know,  Sire,  what  you  would  say,"  she 
broke  in  hastily, — "that  our  attachment  has  in  no  way 
altered  your  relations  towards  her  Majesty.  True,  it 
is  so;  but  my  influence  over  you  ought  to  have  been 
devoted  to  reunite  you.  It  ought  to  have  been  my 
privilege  to  render  both  your  Majesties  happy  as  man 
and  wife,  to  give  heirs  to  France,  to  strengthen  the 
Government.  Alas,  alas!  I  have  sinned  almost  beyond 
forgiveness!"  and  for  awhile  she  broke  into  passionate 
sobs,  which  all  her  self-command  could  not  restrain. 
"Her  Majesty,  Sire,  is  a  most  noble  lady,  beautiful 
generous,  loyal,  courageous.  For  twenty  years  she, 
the  greatest  queen  in  Europe,  has  been  neglected, 
almost  scorned  by  you  her  husband.  Under  these 
trials  her  loft}'  spirit  has  not  flinched — she  has  been 
true  to  you  and  to  herself.  Temptation,  provocation, 
nay,  insults  have  not  shaken  her  virtue.  Believe  no- 
thing against  her.  Sire — her  soul  is  as  lovely  as  her 
body.  Sire,  the  Queen  is  childless,  devote  your  whole 
life  to  her  and  to  France;  tend  her,  protect  her,  love 
her.  Then,  and  then  only,  shall  I  be  reconciled  to 
God."  As  she  spoke  her  sweet  grey  eyes  turned  to- 
wards heaven,  her  countenance  was  transfigured  as  in 
an  ecstasy;  no  saint  standing  within  a  sculptured  shrine 
could  be  more  pure,  more  holy. 


38  OLD   COURT  LIFE   IN  FRANCE. 

The  King  gazed  at  her  awestruck.  "Dispose  of 
me  as  you  will,"  murmured  he;  "command  my  life — 
but,  remember  that  now  I  have  lost  you,  happiness  is 
gone  from  me  for  ever!" 

"Adieu,  Sire,"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Lafayette. 
"The  hour-glass  warns  me  that  our  interview  is  over. 
Return  in  six  months  and  tell  me  that  I  have  been 
obeyed." 

She  drew  the  dark  curtain  across  the  bars,  and 
the  Abbess  entered.  Louis  returned  hastily  to  Saint- 
Germain. 


CHAPTER   V. 
Monsieur  le  Grand. 

In  the  broad  valley  of  the  Loire,  between  Tours 
and  Saumur,  the  train  stops  at  the  small  station  of 
Cinq-Mars.  This  station  lies  beside  the  Loire,  which 
glides  by  in  a  current  so  broad  and  majestic,  as  to 
suggest  a  series  of  huge  lakes,  with  banks  bordered 
by  sand  and  scrub,  rather  than  a  river.  On  either  side 
of  the  Loire  run  ranges  of  low  hills,  their  grassy  sur- 
face gashed  and  scored  by  many  a  rent  revealing  the 
chalky  soil  beneath,  their  summits  fringed  with  scanty 
underwood,  and  dotted  with  groups  of  gnarled  and 
knotted  oaks  and  ragged  fir-trees,  the  rough  roots 
clasping  cairns  of  rock  and  blocks  of  limestone.  In 
the  dimples  of  these  low  hills  lie  snugly  sheltered 
villas,  each  within  its  own  garden  and  policy.  These 
villas  thicken  as  the  small  township  of  Cinq-Mars  is 
approached, — a  nest  of  bright  little  houses,  gay  streets, 
and  tall  chimneys  telling  of  provincial  commerce,  all 
clustering   beneath    chalky  cliffs   which    rise    abruptly 


MONSIEUR   LE  GRAND.  39 

behind,  rent  by  many  a  dark  fissure  and  blackened 
watercourse.  Aloft,  on  a  grassy  marge,  where  many 
an  old  tree  bends  its  scathed  trunk  to  the  prevailing 
wind,  among  bushes  and  piled-up  heaps  of  stones, 
rise  the  ruins  of  a  feudal  castle.  Two  gate  towers 
support  an  arch,  through  which  the  blue  sky  peeps, 
and  some  low,  broken  walls,  without  form  and  void, 
skirt  the  summit  of  the  cliff.  This  ruin,  absolutely 
pathetic  in  its  desolate  loneliness,  is  all  that  remains 
of  the  ancestral  castle  of  the  Coiffiers  de  Cinq-Mars, 
Marquis  d'Effiat.  From  this  hearth  and  from  these 
shattered  walls,  now  razed  '■'■to  the  height  of  infamy" 
sprung  that  handsome,  shallow,  ambitious  coxcomb, 
known  as  the  Marquis  de  Cinq-Mars,  who  succeeded 
Mademoiselle  de  Lafayette  in  the  favour  of  Louis  XIII. 

Deprived  of  Louise  de  Lafayette,  the  King's  spirits 
languished.  In  spite  of  his  partial  reconciliation  with 
Anne  of  Austria,  and  the  birth  of  a  son,  he  was  sullen 
and  gloomy,  spoke  to  no  one,  and  desired  no  one  to 
speak  to  him.  When  etiquette  required  his  presence 
in  the  Queen's  apartments,  he  seated  himself  in  a 
corner,  yawned,  and  fell  asleep.  The  internal  malady 
of  which  he  died  had  already  undermined  his  always 
feeble  frame.  His  condition  was  altogether  so  critical, 
that  the  Cardinal  looked  round  for  a  companion  to 
solace  his  weariness.  Henri  de  Cinq-Mars  had  lately 
come  up  to  Paris  from  Touraine.  In  years  he  was  a 
boy,  under  twenty.  He  was  gentle,  adroit,  and  amusing, 
but  weak,  and  the  Cardinal  believed  he  had  found  in 
him  the  facile  instrument  he  sought. 

Cinq-Mars  was  presented  to  the  King.  Louis  was 
at  once  prepossessed  by  his  handsome  person  and 
distinguished  manners.     Cinq-Mars,   accustomed  from 


40  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

infancy  to  field  sports  and  country  life,  angling  in 
the  deep  currents  of  the  Loire  and  the  Indre,  hunting 
wild  boars  and  deer  in  the  dense  forests  of  Azay  and 
of  Chanteloup,  or  flying  his  gear-falcon  from  the 
summits  of  his  native  downs,  struck  a  sympathetic 
chord  in  the  sad  King's  heart.  One  honour  after  the 
other  was  heaped  upon  him;  finally  he  was  made 
Grand  Seneschal  of  France  and  Master  of  the  Horse. 
From  this  time  he  dropped  the  patronymic  of  "Cinq- 
Mars,"  and  was  known  at  Court  as  "Monsieur  le 
Grand,"  one  of  the  greatest  personages  in  France.  For 
a  time  all  went  smoothly.  King  and  minister  smiled 
upon  the  petulant  stripling,  whose  witty  sallies  and 
boyish  audacity  were  tempered  by  the  highest  breed- 
ing. He  was  always  present  when  the  Cardinal  con- 
ferred with  the  King,  and  from  the  first  gave  his 
opinion  with  much  more  freedom  than  altogether 
pleased  the  minister,  who  simply  intended  him  for  a 
puppet,  not  for  an  adviser.  When  the  Cardinal 
remonstrated,  Cinq-Mars  shook  his  scented  curls, 
pulled  his  lace  ruffles,  talked  of  loyalty  and  gratitude 
to  the  King,  and  of  personal  independence,  in  a 
manner  the  Cardinal  deemed  highly  unbecoming  and 
inconvenient.  Monsieur  le  Grand  cared  little  for  what 
the  Cardinal  thought,  and  did  not  take  the  trouble  to 
hide  this  opinion.  He  cared  neither  for  the  terrible 
minister  nor  for  the  eccentric  Louis,  whom  he  often 
treated,  even  in  public,  with  contempt.  It  was  the 
old  story.  Confident  in  favour,  arrogant  in  power,  he 
made  enemies  every  day. 

Monsieur  le  Grand,  however,  passed  his  time  with 
tolerable  ease  when  relieved  of  the  King's  company, 
specially  in  the  house  of  Marion  de  I'Orme,   Rue  des 


MONSIEUR  LE  GRAND.  4 1 

Tournelles.  He  was  presented  to  her  by  Saint-Evre- 
mond,  and  fell  at  once  a  victim  to  her  wiles.  Marion 
was  the  Aspasia  of  the  day,  and  the  charm  of  her 
entourage  was  delightful  to  him  after  the  restraints  of 
a  dull  and  formal  Court.  Here  he  met  d'Ablancourt, 
La  Chambre,  and  Calprenede,  the  popular  writers  of 
the  age.  The  Abbe  de  Gondi  and  Scarron  came  also, 
and  even  the  prudish  Mademoiselle  de  Scuderi  did 
not  disdain  to  be  present  at  these  Nodes  AmhrosiancE. 
Maripn  de  I'Orme,  then  only  thirty,  was  in  the  zenith 
of  her  beaiaty.  Her  languishing  dark  eyes  exercised 
an  absolute  fascination  over  Cinq-Mars  from  the  first 
instant  they  met.  Her  affected  reserve,  the  refinement 
of  her  manners,  the  entrain  of  her  society,  free  with- 
out license,  captivated  him.  He  believed  her  to  be 
virtuous,  and  desired  to  make  her  his  wife.  Marion 
de  rOrme  was  to  become  Madame  la  Grande! 

This  was  precisely  what  that  astute  lady  had 
angled  for.  Hence  her  reserve,  her  downcast  eyes, 
her  affected  indifference.  She  saw  that  she  was  deal- 
ing with  a  vain,  ignorant  boy,  who,  in  her  hands,  was 
helpless  as  an  infant.  Truly,  he  was  madly  in  love 
with  her,  but  he  was  a  minor,  and  under  the  guardian- 
ship of  the  Dowager  Marquise  de  Cinq-Mars,  his 
mother,  who  might  possibly  not  view  an  alliance  with 
Mademoiselle  Marion  de  I'Orme  as  an  honour  to  the 
ancestral  tree  of  the  Effiats  de  Cinq-Mars.  The  mar- 
riage must  be  secret.  Early  one  morning  they  started 
from  the  Rue  des  Tournelles  in  a  coach,  and  never 
stopped  until  they  had  reached  the  old  castle  among 
the  hills  of  Touraine,  above  the  feudatory  village  of 
Cinq-Mars.  In  the  chapel  of  that  now  ruined  pile 
their  faith  was  plighted.    Marion  promised  love,  Cinq- 


42  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   FRANCE. 

Mars  constancy.  They  were  incapable  of  either.  For 
eight  days  the  old  castle  rang  with  the  sounds  of 
revelry.  Cinq-Mars  and  Marion  were  as  in  a  fairy 
palace;  life  was  but  a  long  enchantment.  But  at  the 
end  of  that  time  Nemesis  appeared  in  the  shape  of 
the  Dowager  Marchioness,  to  whose  ears  the  report  of 
these  merry-makings  came  at  Paris.  Cinq-Mars  replied 
to  his  mother  that  it  was  all  a  passeiemps,  and  that 
Mademoiselle  de  I'Orme — well — was  still  Mademoiselle 
de  rOrme;  that  he  loved  the  Principessa  Maria  di 
Gonzaga  (to  whom  the  handsome  profligate  had,  in- 
deed, paid  his  addresses  before  leaving  Paris,  the 
better  to  throw  dust  in  the  eyes  of  the  world),  and 
that  he  should  shortly  return  to  Paris  and  his  duty 
with  his  Majesty. 

The  mediaeval  chatelaine,  however,  was  not  to  be 
deceived.  She  knew  of  the  secret  marriage,  and  no- 
thing could  exceed  her  rage.  That  Marion  de  I'Orme 
should  sit  on  the  feudal  dais  upon  the  seigneurial 
throne — that  she  should  wear  her  jewelled  coronet, 
should  eat  out  of  her  silver  dish,  and  inhabit  her 
apartments — the  thing  was  atrocious,  scandalous,  im- 
possible. She  flew  to  the  Cardinal,  with  whom  she 
had  some  friendship,  and  informed  him  of  what  had 
occurred.  The  Cardinal,  who  had  formerly  favoured 
Marion  de  I'Orme  with  more  than  his  regard,  was  as 
much  incensed  as  herself.  That  his  protege,  Cinq- 
Mars,  should  supplant  him,  made  him,  old  as  he 
was,  furiously  jealous.  That  Cinq-Mars  should  dare 
to  abandon  the  splendid  position  he  himself  had  as- 
signed him,  leave  the  morbid  Louis  a  prey  to  any  ad- 
venturous scoundrel  whose  adroit  flattery  or  affected 
sympathy  might  in  a  few  hours  render  him  arbiter  of 


MONSIEUR  LE  GRAND.  43 

the  Court  and  master  of  the  kingdom,  was,  to 
Richelieu's  thinking,  an  unpardonable  crime.  The 
artful  prelate  immediately  took  his  measures.  A  royal 
ordinance  was  speedily  framed,  making  all  marriages 
contracted  by  persons  under  age,  and  without  the  con- 
sent of  guardians,  null  and  void! 

Cinq-Mars  returned  to  Court  indignant,  insolent, 
defiant;  swearing  vengeance  against  the  meddling  Car- 
dinal, and  ready  to  enter  into  any  scheme  for  his  de- 
struction. Mademoiselle  Marion  de  I'Orme  re-opened 
her  salon  in  the  Rue  des  Tournelles. 

As  for  Louis,  from  whom  the  knowledge  of  this 
little  escapade  had  been  carefully  concealed,  he  re- 
ceived back  the  truant  with  greater  favour  than  ever. 
Cinq-Mars,  confident  in  the  King's  attachment,  and 
looking  on  him  as  too  feeble  to  combat  his  own 
audacious  projects,  spoke  words  which  Louis  had  not 
heard  since  the  beloved  voice  of  Louise  de  Lafayette 
had  uttered  them.  "He  ought  to  rid  himself  of  the 
Cardinal,  and  rule  for  himself,"  said  Monsieur  Le 
Grand;  "if  not  by  fair,  then  by  foul  means."  '^Let 
Richelieu  die,"  cried  Cinq-Mars,  "as  he  has  made 
others  die — the  best  blood  in  France:  Montmorenci, 
Chalais,  Saint-Preuil,  Marillac,  and  so  many  others." 
It  is  certain  that  the  King  listened  to  these  proposals 
favourably.  He  actually  consented  to  conspire  against 
himself  and  the  State  which  he  governed.  Louis  was 
too  stupid  to  realise  the  absurdity  of  his  position.  He 
permitted  Cinq-Mars  to  coquet  with  the  Spanish 
Government,  in  order  to  insure  the  support  of  Spanish 
troops  to  be  sent  from  the  Netherlands  to  defend 
Sedan  against  the  Cardinal  and  his  own  army  in  case 
of  failure.     But    Richelieu,    now    fully    alive    to    the 


44  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

dangerous  ascendancy  of  Cinq-Mars, — for  he  had  spies 
everywhere,  specially  the  soft-spoken  Chavigny,  who  was 
always  about  the  King, — openly  taxed  his  Sovereign 
with  treachery  in  a  message  borne  to  him  by  the 
Marquis  de  Mortemart.  Louis  was  dumb-foundered 
and  terrified.  He  wrote  a  letter  that  very  same  day, 
addressed  to  the  Chancellor  Seguier,  apologising  for 
his  seeming  infidelity  to  his  minister.  "He  did  not 
deny,"  said  he,  "that  Monsieur  le  Grand  desired  to 
compass  the  Cardinal's  death,"  but,  with  incredible 
meanness,  he  added,  "that  he  had  never  listened  to 
him."  Monsieur  le  Grand,  whose  weak  head  was  by 
this  time  completely  turned,  fully  believing  himself 
invincible,  openly  discussed  what  he  should  do  when 
he  was  himself  prime  minister.  Suspecting  Louis  of 
being  too  weak  to  be  his  only  supporter,  he  turned  to 
Gaston,  Due  d'Orleans.  Monsieur,  whose  life,  like 
that  of  his  brother's,  singularly  repeats  itself,  bethink- 
ing himself  of  early  times  and  of  a  certain  moonlight 
meeting  on  the  terrace  of  Saint-Germain,  at  once 
addressed  himself  to  the  Queen.  But  she  had  already 
suffered  too  much  to  allow  herself  again  to  be  drawn 
into  danger.  When  Monsieur  detailed  the  plot,  and 
asked  her  significantly,  "What  news  she  had  lately 
had  from  her  brother,  the  King  of  Spain?"  she  an- 
swered that  she  had  had  no  news,  and  instantly 
changed  the  conversation.  This  did  not  at  all  cool 
Monsieur's  ardour,  such  as  it  was.  Three  times  he 
had  been  banished  from  France  for  treason,  and 
three  times  he  had  returned,  as  ready  as  ever,  with  or 
without  the  Queen,  to  conspire,  to  betray,  and  to  be 
again  banished.  So  the  traitor  prince  and  the  vain- 
glorious   favourite,    both    intensely    hating    Richelieu, 


MONSIEUR  LE  GRAND.  45 

laid  their  heads  together  to  destroy  him  by  means  of 
Spain.  To  them  was  joined  the  Marquis  de  Thou, 
one  of  the  jeunesse  doree  of  the  Court,  along  with 
Fontrailles,  secretary  to  Monsieur,  The  great  Cardinal, 
sitting  in  the  Palais  Royal  like  a  huge  spider  in  his 
web,  ready  to  pounce  upon  his  prey  as  soon  as  it  had 
reached  the  precise  spot  where  he  intended  to  seize 
it,  was  familiar  with  every  detail.  Monsieur  was  to 
receive  four  hundred  thousand  crowns  in  order  to 
raise  levies  in  France;  he  was  also  to  declare  war 
against  France  in  concert  with  Spain. 

The  Cardinal  was  to  be  assassinated  or  imprisoned 
for  life;  Gaston  was  to  be  proclaimed  regent  for  his 
nephew  Louis  XIV.  It  was  the  old  story,  only,  now 
an  heir  was  born  to  the  throne.  Monsieur  did  not  dare 
to  claim  the  first  place.  Fontrailles,  a  creature  of  his 
own,  he  allowed  to  be  sent  into  Spain.  The  treaty 
was  signed  at  Madrid  by  Fontrailles,  on  the  part  of 
Monsieur  and  Cinq-Mars,  and  by  the  King  of  Spain 
on  his  own  part.  This  done,  Fontrailles  flew  back  to 
France,  with  the  precious  document  stitched  in  his 
clothes.  Scarcely  was  the  ink  dry,  before  Richelieu 
was  provided  with  a  copy. 

The  Court  was  at  Narbonne,  on  the  Mediterranean, 
whither  Cinq-Mars  had  led  the  King,  in  order  to  be 
near  the  Spanish  frontier.  Richelieu  was  at  this  time 
greatly  indisposed,  and  in  partial  disgrace.  He  hung 
about  the  Rhone,  sometimes  at  Tarascon,  near  Avignon, 
sometimes  at  Valence,  conveniently  near  to  be  informed 
by  Chavigny  of  everything  that  happened.  Chavigny, 
deep  in  Louis's  confidence,  pendulated  between  the 
King  and  the  minister.  At  the  fitting  moment,  Chavigny 
requested  a  formal  audience.     It  was  the  afternoon  of 


46  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

the  same  day  that  Fontrailles  had  returned  to  Narbonne, 
the  treaty  with  Spain  still  stitched  in  his  clothes.  Con- 
trary to  custom,  when  Chavigny  knocked  at  the  King's 
door,  Louis  requested  Monsieur  le  Grand  to  retire. 
This  alone  ought  to  have  aroused  his  suspicions.  While 
Chavigny  talked  with  the  King,  Cinq-Mars,  ashamed 
of  letting  the  Court  see  his  exclusion  from  the  room, 
lolled  in  the  ante-room  reading  a  story.  Fontrailles 
found  him  there. 

"How  now,  Monsieur  le  Grand,"  said  he,  "do  you 
allow  his  most  Christian  Majesty  to  give  an  audience 
at  which  you  are  not  present?  You  are  getting  him 
into  bad  habits." 

"It  is  only  Chavigny,"  replied  Cinq-Mars,  not  taking 
his  eyes  off  his  book;  "he  can  have  nothing  particular 
to  say,  for  he  is  here  every  day.  I  am  weary  of  the 
King's  company.  I  have  been  with  him  all  day,  and 
I  want  to  finish  this  story,  which  is  much  more  interest- 
ing than  his  stupid  talk."  And  Cinq-Mars  threw  himself 
back  in  his  easy-chair,  and  resumed  his  reading. 

"Ah,  Monsieur  le  Grand,"  said  Fontrailles,  smiling 
at  him  curiously,  "fortune  favours  you.  You  are  a 
beautiful  man.  Look  at  me,  with  niy  hump"  (Fontrailles 
was  deformed);  "I  use  my  eyes;  I  am  going  to-night 
to  meet  Monsieur,  before  I  leave  Narbonne.  I  have 
brought  him  that  little  present  from  Madrid  you  know 
of.  1  have  it  safe  here  in  my  pocket,"  and  Fontrailles 
tapped  his  side  and  grinned.  "Come  with  me.  Monsieur 
le  Grand,"  said  he,  coaxingly,  and  he  tried  to  take  his 
hand,  but  Cinq-Mars  repulsed  him.  "Come  with  me; 
believe  me,  the  air  of  Narbonne  is  heavy  at  this  time 
of  year.  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  not  deadly,  very 
deadly,  indeed — especially  for  you,  Monsieur  le  Marquis. 


MONSIEUR  LE  GRAND.  47 

A  little  change  will  do  your  health  good.  I  am  going. 
Come  with  me  where  we  can  breathe;"  and  Fontrailles 
laughed  a  short  dry  laugh,  and  looked  out  of  the  window 
upon  the  blue  expanse  of  ocean,  whose  waves  beat 
against  the  yellow  shores  of  the  Mediterranean. 

"I  pray  you.  Fontrailles,  do  not  trouble  me,"  said 
Cinq-Mars,  looking  up  over  his  book  <ind  yawning. 
"I  really  must  have  sometime  to  myself,  or  I  shall  die. 
Besides,  I  want  to  see  his  Majesty  when  Chavigny 
goes;  he  is  staying  longer  than  usual,  I  think." 

"Yes,  Monsieur  le  Grand,  too  long  for  a  man 
coming  from  the  Cardinal,  methinks." 

Fontrailles  still  stood  watching  Cinq-Mars.  His 
deep-set  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  intently,  as  Cinq- 
!Mars,  with  perfect  indiflerence,  went  on  reading  his 
story.  Fontrailles  passed  his  hand  thoughtfully  over 
his  brow  two  or  three  times.  A  look  of  pity  came 
into  his  face  as  he  contemplated  Cinq-Mars,  still  reading. 
He  was  so  young,  so  fresh,  so  magnificent;  his  golden 
locks  long  and  abundant;  his  pleasant  face  faultless  in 
feature;  his  delicate  hajids;  his  perfumed  clothes, — all 
so  perfect!  Should  he  try  to  save  him?  A  tear  gathered 
in  the  eye  of  the  hardened  conspirator. 

"Monsieur  le  Grand,"  said  he  softly,  stepping  up 
nearer  to  Cinq-Mars  and  placing  fhis  hand  on  his 
red  and  silver  shoulder-knot — "Monsieur  le  Grand,  I 
say " 

"What,  Fontrailles,  are  you  not  gone  yet?  Ma  foi! 
I  thought  you  were  far  on  your  road  to  Monsieur " 

"No,  Monsieur  le  Grand;   no,  I  am  not  gone  yet." 

Cinq-Mars  put  down  his  book,  sat  upright,  and 
looked  at  him. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  want  with  me,  Fontrailles? 


48  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   FRANCE. 

I  will  meet  you  and  Monsieur  le  Due  to-morrow.    For 
to-night,  peace." 

"Have  you  no  suspicion  of  what  Chavigny  is  saying 
to  the  King  all  this  time,  Marquis?"  asked  Fontrailles 
with  an  ominous  grin. 

"None,  my  friend;  but  I  shall  hear  it  all  before  his 
coiicher.  His  most  gracious  Majesty  is  incapable  of 
lying  down  to  rest  before  telling  me  every  syllable," 
and  Cinq-Mars  snapped  his  finger  and  thumb  con- 
temptuously towards  the  door  of  the  room  within  which 
Louis  was  closeted  with  Chavigny. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  of  the  King,  Monsieur  le 
Grand?"  asked  Fontrailles  significantly,  still  leaning 
over  Cinq-Mars  and  pressing  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder- 
knot.  "It  is  needful  for  you  to  be  quite  sure  of  him. 
His  Majesty  is  apt  to  be  weak  and  treacherous." 

Cinq-Mars  nodded  his  head;  then,  as  if  something 
had  suddenly  struck  him,  he  rose,  and  in  his  turn 
began  to  gaze  curiously  at  Fontrailles,  whose  manner 
and  countenance  were  strangely  expressive  of  some 
unspoken  fear. 

"You  are  very  tall,  Monsieur  le  Grand,"  said  Fon- 
trailles abruptly,  speaking  low,  with  his  hand  placed 
over  his  eyes,  the  better  to  contemplate  Cinq-Mars, 
now  drawn  up  tofhis  full  height,  and  staring  at  him 
with  wonder;  "you  are  very  tall,"  he  repeated,  "and  I 
am  such  a  little  man.  You  are  very  handsome,  too 
— the  handsomest  gentleman  in  all  France — and  very 
gracious  to  me  also — very  kind  and  gracious." 

Fontrailles  spoke  thoughtfully,  as  a  man  who  turned 
some  important  matter  over  in  his  mind. 

"Have  you  come  here  only  to  tell  me  this,  Fon- 
trailles?" answered  Cinq-Mars,  laughing,  and  again  he 


MONSIEUR  LE   GRAND.  49 

yawned,  passed  his  jewelled  fingers  through  his  clustering 
locks,  and  again  took  up  the  book  which  he  had  laid 
down  on  a  table  beside  him,  and  reseated  himself, 
Fontrailles,  however,  had  never  taken  his  eyes  off  him. 
His  gaze  had  deepened  into  an  expression  of  deep 
sorrow,  although  he  spoke  jestingly.  Whatever  train 
of  thought  occupied  him,  it  had  not  been  broken  by 
what  Cinq-Mars  had  just  said. 

"Youare  very  tall,"  he  again  repeated,  as  if  speaking 
to  himself,  in  a  peculiar  voice;  "so  tall,  indeed,  that 
you  could  do  without  your  head.  Monsieur  le  Grand, 
and  yet  be  taller  than  I  am.  Perhaps  this  makes  you 
careless.  I  am  short,  and  I  could  not  afford  to  lose 
my  head — so — I  am  going  to  leave  Narbonne  instantly. 
The  air  here  is  as  deadly  to  my  constitution  as  it  is 
to  yours.  Marquis,  pray  do  believe  me.  Will  you  come 
with  me — the  tall  man  with  the  little  onel — both  need- 
ing a  change.     Will  you  come?" 

Cinq-Mars  did  not  heed  him  a  whit.  Fontrailles 
laid  his  hand  heavily  on  the  thick  shock  of  Monsieur 
le  Grand's  golden  curls. 

"No,  viille  diables,  no!"  roared  Cinq-Mars  in  a  rage, 
shaking  him  off;  "I  will  not  go.  Why  should  I  go? 
For  God's  sake  leave  me.  I  am  just  at  the  catastrophe 
of  my  story,  and  you  keep  on  tormenting  me  like  a 
gadfly." 

"Excuse  me,  Monsieur  le  Grand,"  replied  Fontrailles 
submissively,  "I  did  but  advise  you  for  your  good. 
I  desire  your  company  for  the  sake  of  that  comely  head 
of  yours;  but,  as  I  said,  you  are  tall,  and  I  am  short, 
which  makes  a  great  difference.  It  is  a  long  journey 
across  the  mountains  of  France  into  the  Low  Countries," 
added  he,   sighing.     "That  will   be  my  road — a   long 

Old  Court  Life  in  France.    //.  4 


50  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

and  weary  road.     It  might  fatigue  your  excellency.     I 
am  going,  Monsieur  le  Marquis.    I  am  gone — Adieu!" 
Cinq-Mars  did  not  look  up,  and  Fontrailles,  turning 
upon  him  a  last  look  full  of  pity,  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Death    on    the    Scaffold. 

When  Chavigny  left  the  King,  Cinq-Mars  entered 
the  royal  chamber.  Louis  was  silent,  absorbed,  and 
melancholy — would  answer  no  questions,  and  abruptly 
dismissed  the  favourite  on  the  plea  that  he  was  fatigued 
and  needed  rest. 

Monsieur  le  Grand  was  naturally  surprised  at  the 
change.  The  significant  words  of  Fontrailles  recurred 
to  him;  too  late  he  repented  his  careless  indifference 
to  the  friendly  warning.  Btit  after  all,  if  the  King 
failed  him,  there  was  Monsieur  and  there  was  the 
treaty.  What  had  he,  Cinq-Mars,  to  fear  when  the 
King's  brother  had  so  deeply  compromised  himselfl 
The  Cardinal,  too,  was  ill — very  ill;  he  might  die. 
Still,  as  he  turned  to  his  own  suite  of  apartments  his 
mind  misgave  him.  The  King  had  not  told  him  one 
word  of  his  interview  with  Chavigny;  and  although 
Chavigny  would  have  denied  it  upon  oath  on  the  con- 
secrated wafer,  Cinq-Mars  knew  he  was  the  Cardinal's 
creature  and  his  go-between  with  the  King. 

When  Cinq-Mars  reached  his  rooms  he  found  a 
letter  from  his  friend,  De  Thou.  "Fly,"  said  this 
letter — "fly  instantly.  I  have  certain  intelligence  that 
the  Cardinal  is  acquainted  with  every  particular  of  the 
treaty  signed  at  Madrid.     For  myself  I  have  nothing 


DEATH   ON  THE  SCAFFOLD.  5  I 

to  fear;  but  you  have  incurred  the  deadly  hatred  of 
Richelieu." 

Thereupon  Cinq-Mars,  hurriedly  disguised  himself 
in  a  Spanish  cloak,  with  a  Sombrero  hat  slouched 
over  his  face,  stole  out  of  the  prefecture  where  the 
King  was  staying,  and  made  his  way  as  fast  as  he 
could  run  to  the  city  gates.  They  were  closed.  Then, 
fully  aroused  to  the  urgency  of  his  position,  the  strange 
words  of  Fontrailles  ringing  in  his  ears,  he  sought  out 
the  abode  of  a  humble  friend,  whom  he  had  recom- 
mended to  serve  the  Court  with  mules  for  the  jour- 
neying to  the  south  from  Paris — a  man  of  Touraine, 
whom  he  had  known  from  his  boyhood.  He  roused 
him  from  sleep — for  the  night  had  now  closed  in — 
and  acquainted  him  with  his  danger.  The  faithful 
muleteer  did  his  best.  He  hid  him  under  some  loose 
hay  with  the  mules  in  the  stable.  It  was  in  vain. 
Cinq-Mars  had  been  seen  and  tracked  from  the  prefec- 
ture to  the  muleteer's  house,  and  the  scented  exquisite 
— whose  word  a  few  hours  before  ruled  the  destiny 
of  France — was  dragged  out  headlong  from  the  hay, 
his  fine  clothes  torn  and  soiled,  his  face  scratched  and 
bleeding,  amid  the  hooting  of  the  populace  and  the 
jeers  of  his  enemies. 

De  Thou,  his  friend,  was  arrested  on  the  same 
day,  not  as  guilty  of  conspiring,  but  simply  as  being 
cognizant  of  the  existence  of  the  treaty  of  Madrid, 
which  Fontrailles  had  carefully  carried  off  into  the 
Netherlands  stitched  in  his  clothes,  a  copy  of  which 
lay  with  the  Cardinal. 

Monsieur  Due  d'Orleans  was  also,  for  the  fourth 
time,  arrested  and  imprisoned. 

The  effect  of  that  copy  of  the  treaty  which  Cha- 

4' 


52  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

vigny  had  shown  to  the  King,  while  Cinq-Mars  read 
his  story,  was  instantaneous.  Louis  became  greatly 
alarmed.  He  understood  that  Richelieu  knew  all,  and' 
therefore  must  be  fully  aware  that  he  had  himself 
encouraged  and  approved  a  plot  to  kill  him.  The 
same  day  that  Cinq-Mars  was  conducted  a  prisoner 
to  the  Castle  of  Montpellier,  Louis  insisted  upon  going 
himself  to  Tarascon,  to  make  a  personal  apology  to 
Richelieu.  He  was  already  so  weakened  by  the  disease 
of  which  he  died,  that  he  was  forced  to  be  carried  in 
a  chair  into  the  Cardinal's  lodgings.  They  were 
together  many  hours.  What  passed  no  one  knew,  but 
it  is  certain  that  the  '■'■  amiable  criminal"  as  Cinq-Mars 
is  called  by  contemporary  authors,  was  the  scapegoat 
sacrificed  to  the  offended  dignity  of  the  Cardinal;  that 
Monsieur,  the  King's  only  brother,  was  to  be  tried  for 
treason;  and  that  Richelieu  should  be  restored  to  the 
King's  confidence.  In  his  eagerness  to  propitiate  his 
offended  minister,  Louis  actually  proposed  to  take  his 
two  sons  from  the  custody  of  the  Queen  and  place 
them  with  the  Cardinal,  in  order  to  guarantee  his  per- 
sonal safety.  This  abject  proposition  was  declined  by 
Richelieu,  who  was  unwilling  to  provoke  the  Queen's 
active  hostility  at  so  critical  a  moment. 

Richelieu  had  conquered,  but  he  was  dying.  Though 
his  body  was  broken  by  disease,  his  mind  was  vigorous 
as  ever;  in  revenge  and  hatred,  in  courage  and  for- 
titude, his  spirit  was  still  lusty.  In  his  enormous  thirst 
of  blood,  none  had  ever  excited  him  like  the  airy 
Marquis  de  Cinq-Mars, — a  creature  of  his  own,  whom 
he  had  raised  to  the  dizzy  height  of  supreme  power, 
to  become  his  rival  in  love  and  in  power.  The  great 
minister  felt  he  had  made  a  mistake:   it  angered  him. 


DEATH   ON  THE  SCAFFOLD.  53 

He  had  not  patience  to  think  that  he  should  have  been 
taken  in  by  a  butterfly,  whose  painted  wings  he  had 
decorated  with  his  own  hands.  He,  the  all -potent 
Cardinal,  the  ruler  of  France,  circumvented  by  a  boy! 
He  swore  a  big  oath  that  not  only  should  Cinq- 
Mars  die,  but  that  death  should  be  made  doubly  bitter 
to  him. 

Richelieu  was  now  at  Valence  on  the  Rhone.  How 
was  he  to  reach  Lyons,  where  the  trial  was  to  take 
place?  The  distance  is  considerable.  His  limbs  were 
cramped  and  useless,  his  body  racked  by  horrible  pain. 
But  go  he  would;  if  he  died  upon  the  road  he  would 
go.  So  he  ordered  a  room  of  wooden  planks  to  be 
constructed,  gilt  and  painted  like  a  coach,  and  lined 
with  crimson  damask.  This  room  contained  a  bed,  a 
table,  and  a  chair.  Within  reclined  the  Cardinal.  Too 
ill  to  bear  the  motion  of  a  carriage,  he  was  borne  on 
the  heads  of  twenty  of  his  body-guard  by  land.  Houses, 
walls,  and  gateways,  were  knocked  down  to  make  way 
for  him.  By  water  he  was  conveyed  in  a  towing  boat 
pulled  up  the  Rhone  against  the  current  by  horses  to 
Lyons.  Attached  to  this  boat  was  another,  in  which 
the  prisoners  Cinq-Mars  and  De  Thou  were  carried. 
So  Richelieu  passed  onwards,  with  all  the  pomp  of  a 
Roman  pro -consul  conducting  barbarian  princes  first 
to  adorn  his  triumph,  then  to  die!  As  for  Monsieur, 
he  had  already  made  his  peace  with  his  brother  and 
Richelieu.  He  turned  King's  evidence,  and  betrayed 
everybody.  Fontrailles,  who  alone  could  have  con- 
victed him,  was  safe  across  the  frontier.  "Talk  not 
to  me  of  my  brother,"  even  the  besotted  Louis  ex- 
claimed, when  he  heard  that  Monsieur  was  again  at 
liberty;  "Gaston  ever  was,  and  ever  will  be,  a  traitor." 


54  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN   FRANCE. 

The  only  crime  which  even  the  ingenuity  of  Riche- 
lieu could  prove  against  Cinq-Mars  was  that  he  had 
joined  with  Monsieur  in  a  treaty  with  Spain.  Now 
the  original  transcript  of  this  treaty  was  lost,  Fontrailles 
having  carried  it  with  him  into  the  Netherlands,  stitched 
in  his  pocket.  If  Monsieur  the  Due  d'Orleans,  there- 
fore, had  declined  to  speak,  Cinq-Mars  and  his  friend 
De  Thou  must  have  been  acquitted.  But  Monsieur, 
on  the  contrary,  loudly  demanded  to  be  interrogated 
on  his  own  complicity  and  on  the  complicity  of  Cinq- 
Mars.  The  Cardinal  had  already  showed  what  was  in 
his  mind,  by  giving  orders,  as  soon  as  he  was  lifted 
out  of  his  portable  chamber,  on  arriving  at  Lyons,  and 
before  the  trial  had  begun,  "for  the  executioner  to 
hold  himself  in  readiness." 

The  trial  was  on  the  i2th  of  September,  1642.  It 
began  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  at  the  Hotel 
de  Ville.  The  Chancellor  Seguier,  a  personal  enemy 
of  Monsieur  le  Grand,  who  had  affronted  him  in  the 
days  of  his  greatness,  was  the  president,  and  Monsieur 
Due  d'Orleans  the  principal  witness.  Monsieur's  evi- 
dence was  given  with  touching  candour.  He  was  so 
careful  to  tell  all  the  truth,  so  skilful  in  bringing  out 
all  those  facts  which  were  calculated  to  place  Cinq- 
Mars  in  the  most  odious  light,  that  the  charges  were 
easily  proved  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  judges.  The 
trial  was  over  in  a  few  hours.  Then  the  two  young 
men  were  summoned  before  the  judges  in  the  council- 
chamber  to  hear  their  sentence.  It  was  read  out  to 
them  by  Monsieur  de  Palleruc,  a  member  of  the  cri- 
minal court  of  Lyons.  According  to  this  sentence  they 
were  both  to  be  beheaded;  Cinq-Mars  was  to  be  tor- 
tured.    He    listened  with    calmness,    De    Thou    with 


DEATH   ON  THE  SCAFFOLD.  55 

resignation.  They  both  shook  hands  with  their  judges. 
"I  am  prepared  to  die,"  said  Cinq-Mars  to  Seguier, 
the  Chancellor,  "but  I  must  say  the  idea  of  torture  is 
horrible  and  degrading.  It  is  a  most  extraordinary 
sentence  for  a  man  of  my  rank  and  of  my  age.  I 
thought  the  laws  did  not  permit  it.  Indeed,  I  do  not 
fear  death,  gentlemen,"  continued  the  poor  lad,  turn- 
ing to  the  judges,  "but  I  confess  my  weakness, — I 
dread  torture.  At  least,  I  beseech  you,  let  me  have 
a  confessor." 

His  request  was  complied  with,  and  Father  Mala- 
vette,  a  Jesuit,  was  brought  into  the  council-chamber. 
As  soon  as  he  saw  him  Cinq-Mars  ran  forward  and 
embraced  him.  "My  father,  they  are  going  to  torture 
me,"  he  cried;  "I  can  scarcely  bring  myself  to  bear 
it!    What  is  your  opinion^' 

"That  you  must  submit  to  the  hand  of  God,  Mon- 
seigneur.     Nothing  happens  but  by  his  permission." 

Cinq-Mars  bowed  his  handsome  head,  covered  with 
the  sunny  curls,  and  was  silent.  From  the  council- 
chamber  he  was  led  by  Monsieur  de  Lanbardemont, 
an  officer  of  the  court,  to  the  torture-room.  Here  he 
remained  about  half  an  hour,  and  suffered  torture, 
both  ordinary  and  extraordinary.  His  supple  limbs 
and  delicate  skin  were  horribly  lacerated.  He  was 
unable  to  walk  when  he  came  out,  and  was  supported 
by  the  officials.  "Let  me  now  think  of  my  soul,"  he 
said  faintly;  "send  my  confessor  to  me,  and  permit  me 
to  be  alone  with  him."  This  wish  was  granted,  and 
an  hour  passed,  during  which  he  confessed  and  received 
absolution.  Then  he  said  to  Father  Malavette,  "I  have 
not  eaten  for  twenty-four  hours,  my  father,  and  I  am 
very  weak.     I  fear  if  I  do  not  take  something  I  may 


56  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

swoon  upon  the  scaffold,  though  indeed,  I  assure  you, 
I  do  not  fear  to  die."  A  little  wine  and  bread  were 
brought  to  him,  of  which  he  partook.  "Ah!  my  father," 
said  the  poor  boy  of  twenty-two,  "what  a  world  it  is! 
Everybody  I  know  has  forsaken  me.  How  strange  it 
is!  I  thought  I  had  many  friends,  but  I  see  no  one 
cares  for  me  now  but  poor  De  Thou,  whom  I  alone 
have  brought  to  this  pass." 

"Alas!  my  son,  you  are  young,  or  you  would  not 
wonder  at  this,"  answered  Father  Malavette  sorrow- 
fully; "'put  not  your  faith  in  princes.'  What  says  Ovid 
too,  who,  like  you,  enjoyed  the  favour  of  Augustus, 
and  was  then  cruelly  punished? 

"  'Donee  eris  felix  ,  multos  numerabis  amicos.'  " 

"But,  my  father,  when  I  was  the  favourite  of  his 
Majesty,  I  tried  to  serve  my  friends  in  every  way  I 
possibly  could,  yet  now  I  am  alone." 

"No  matter,"  said  the  priest,  shaking  his  head, 
"your  service  to  them  only  made  them  your  enemies." 

"Alack,  I  fear  it  is  so,"  replied  Cinq-Mars,  sighing 
deeply.  Then  he  asked  for  paper,  and  wrote  to  his 
mother.  He  prayed  her  to  pay  all  his  debts,  and  again 
expressed  his  utter  astonishment  at  the  conduct  of  his 
friends.  At  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  both  he 
and  De  Thou  were  carried  in  a  hired  coach  into  the 
Place  des  Terraux,  lying  over  against  the  banks  of  the 
river  Soane,  in  the  outskirts  of  the  city.  Here  the 
scaffold  was  erected.  Every  house  in  the  Place  was 
covered  by  temporary  balustrades  and  balconies;  the 
roofs  also  were  crowded  with  spectators.  Thousands 
had  come  together  to  see  the  favourite  die. 

Cinq-Mars  with  difficulty  mounted  the  ladder  lead- 


DEATH  ON   THE  SCAFFOLD  57 

ing  to  the  scaffold,  with  the  help  of  Father  Malavette. 
Then,  still  holding  him  by  the  hand  to  steady  his 
wounded  limbs,  he  raised  his  plumed  hat  from  off  his 
head,  and,  with  a  graceful  air,  saluted  the  multitude. 
He  turned  to  every  side,  and  passed  round  to  each 
face  of  the  platform,  so  that  all  might  see  him  and 
receive  his  salutation.  He  wore  a  court  suit  of  fine 
Holland  broad  cloth,  trimmed  with  gold  lace;  his 
black  hat  ornamented  with  red  feathers  was  turned 
back  in  the  Spanish  style.  He  had  high-heeled  shoes 
with  diamond  buckles,  and  green  silk  stockings,  and 
he  carried  a  large  scarlet  mantle,  to  cover  his  body 
after  decapitation,  neatly  folded  on  one  arm.  His  fair 
young  face  was  perfectly  serene,  and  his  clustering 
curls,  slightly  powdered,  were  scented  and  tended  as 
carefully  as  heretofore.  Having  bowed  to  the  crowd, 
he  replaced  his  hat  on  his  head,  and,  with  his  hand 
resting  on  his  right  side,  he  turned  round  to  look 
about  him.  Behind  were  two  blocks,  covered  with  red 
cloth.  Beside  them  stood  the  executioner.  He  was 
only  a  city  porter — the  regular  official  being  ill — a 
coarse  and  brutal  fellow,  with  a  bloated  face,  wearing 
the  dress  of  a  labourer.  When  he  came  up  to  Cinq- 
Mars  with  scissors  to  cut  off  his  hair,  M.  le  Grand  put 
him  away  with  a  motion  of  disgust.  He  begged  Father 
Malavette  to  do  him  this  office,  and  to  keep  his  hair 
for  his  mother.  While  the  long  ringlets  which  fell 
over  his  shoulders  were  being  cut  off,  Cinq-Mars  turned 
towards  the  executioner,  who  had  not  yet  taken  the 
axe  out  of  a  dirty  bag  which  lay  beside  him,  and  asked 
him  haughtily,  "What  he  was  about?"  and  "Why  he 
did  not  begin?"  The  rude  fellow  making  a  wry  face 
in  reply,  Cinq-Mars  frowned,  and  addressed  himself  to 


58  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

Father  Malavette.  "My  father,"  said  he,  "assist  me  in 
my  prayers,  then  I  shall  be  ready." 

After  he  had  prayed  very  devoutly,  and  kissed  the 
crucifix  repeatedly,  he  rose  from  his  knees,  and  again 
in  a  firm  voice  repeated,  "I  am  ready,  begin!"  Then 
he  added,  "My  God  have  mercy  upon  me,  and  pardon 
my  sins."  He  threw  away  his  hat,  unloosed  the  lace 
ruff  from  about  his  throat,  put  back  his  hair  from  his 
face,  and  laid  his  head  on  the  block.  Several  blows 
descended  ere  his  head  was  severed  from  the  body; 
the  executioner  being  unready  and  new  to  his  office. 
When  the  head  fell  it  gave  a  bound,  turned  itself  a 
little  on  one  side,  and  the  lips  palpitated  visibly,  the 
eyes  being  wide  open.  The  body  was  covered  with 
the  scarlet  mantle  borne  by  Cinq-Mars  on  his  arm  for 
that  purpose,  and  carried  away  to  be  buried. 

The  King,  informed  by  the  Cardinal  of  the  pre- 
cise day  and  hour  when  Cinq-Mars  would  suffer  death, 
— for  every  detail  had  been  virtually  arranged  before 
Richelieu  left  Valence  in  his  wooden  chamber, — took 
out  his  watch  at  the  appointed  time,  and,  with  the 
most  perfect  unconcern,  remarked  to  Chavigny,  "At 
this  moment  Monsieur  le  Grand  is  making  an  ugly 
face  at  Lyons." 

Then  Richelieu  ordered  that  the  feudal  castle  of 
Cinq-Mars,  in  the  valley  of  the  Loire,  should  be  blown 
up,  and  the  towers  razed  ^'to  the  height  of  in/amyj" 


THE  END   OF  THE  CARDIXAL.  59 


CHAPTER   VII. 

The  Knd  of  the  Cardinal. 

When  the  Louvre  was  a  walled  and  turreted 
stronghold,  with  moat  and  drawbridge,  bastion  and 
tower,  lying  on  grassy  banks  beside  the  river  Seine, 
then  unbordered  by  quays  and  untraversed  by  stone 
bridges,  an  ancient  castle,  strongly  fortified,  stood  in 
the  open  country,  hard  by,  without  the  city  walls.  In 
the  time  of  Charles  VI.,  the  mad  king,  husband  of  the 
notorious  Isabeau  de  Bavi^re,  this  castle  belonged  to 
Bernard  Comte  d'Armagnac,  Constable  of  France,  the 
ally  of  the  English  against  his  own  sovereign,  and  a 
leader  in  those  terrible  civil  wars  that  desolated  France 
throughout  the  space  of  two  reigns.  Hither  the  Eng- 
lish and  the  Burgundians  often  repaired,  to  meditate 
some  murderous  coup  de  main  upon  the  capital,  to 
mass  their  bloodthirsty  troops  for  secret  expeditions, 
or  to  seek  a  safe  retreat  when  the  fortune  of  war  was 
adverse.  As  time  went  by  this  castle  grew  grey  with 
age;  the  rebel  nobles  to  whom  it  belonged  were  laid 
in  their  graves;  no  one  cared  to  inhabit  a  gloomy 
fortress,  torn  and  battered  by  war  and  sacked  by 
marauders.  The  wind  howled  through  the  desolate 
chambers,  owls  hooted  from  the  rents  in  its  turrets, 
and  noisome  reptiles  crawled  in  the  rank  weeds  which 
choked  up  its  courts.  It  came  to  be  a  gruesome  place, 
lying  among  barren  fields,  where  the  ruffians  and  des- 
peradoes of  the  city  resorted  to  plan  a  murder  or  to 
hide  from  justice.  This  God-forgotten  ruin  and  the 
foot-trodden  fields  about  it  were  purchased  at  last  by 


6o  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

wealthy  nobles,  who  loved  the  fresh  country  breezes 
beyond  the  new  streets  which  now  arose  on  this  side 
of  the  river.  The  materials  of  the  old  castle  served 
to  furnish  walls  for  the  palaces  of  the  Rambouillets 
and  the  Mercoeurs,  historic  names  in  every  age  of  the 
national  annals.  Here  they  kept  their  state,  until 
Cardinal  Richelieu,  either  by  fair  means  or  foul,  it 
mattered  little  to  him,  bought  and  destroyed  their 
spacious  mansions,  pulled  down  all  that  remained  of 
the  castle  walls,  filled  up  the  ditches,  levelled  the 
earth,  and,  on  the  ill-omened  spot,  raised  the  sump- 
tuous pile  known  as  the  Palais  Cardinal,  near,  yet 
removed  from,  the  residence  of  the  sovereign  at 
the  Louvre.  The  principal  buildings  ran  round 
an  immense  central  square,  or  courtyard,  planted 
symmetrically  with  trees  and  adorned  with  foun- 
tains and  statues.  From  this  central  square  four 
other  smaller  courts  opened  out  towards  each  point 
of  the  compass.  There  was  a  chapel  splendidly  deco- 
rated, and,  to  balance  that,  two  theatres,  one  suffi- 
ciently spacious  to  hold  three  thousand  spectators, 
painted  on  panel  by  Philippe  de  Champagne.  There 
were  ball-rooms  furnished  with  a  luxury  unknown  be- 
fore; boudoirs — or  rather  bowers — miracles  of  taste 
and  elegance;  galleries  filled  with  pictures  and  works 
of  art,  and  countless  suites  of  rooms,  in  which  every 
decoration  and  adornment  then  practised  were  dis- 
played. Over  the  grand  entrance  in  the  Rue  Saint- 
Honore  appeared,  carved  in  marble,  the  arms  of  Riche- 
lieu, surmounted  by  a  cardinal's  hat  and  the  inscrip- 
tion "Palais  Cardinal."  Spacious  gardens  extended  at 
the  rear. 

Still  the  Cardinal,  like  Wolsey  at  Hampton  Court, 


THE  END  OF  THE  CARDINAL.  6 1 

added  wall  to  wall  of  the  already  overgrown  palace, 
and  bought  up  street  after  street  within  the  city  to  ex- 
tend the  gardens,  until  even  the  subservient  Louis 
showed  some  tokens  of  displeasure.  Then,  and  not 
till  then,  did  the  Cardinal  cease  building.  At  his 
death  he  presented  his  palace  to  the  sovereign;  and 
from  that  day  to  this  the  Palais  Cardinal,  now  Palais 
Royal,  has  become  an  appanage  of  the  State. 

Before  us  stands  the  Palais  Cardinal — solitary,  in 
the  midst  of  lonely  gardens,  sheltered  by  waving 
groves.  The  greensward  is  divided  by  straight  walks, 
bordered  by  clipped  lime-trees,  rounded  at  intervals 
into  niches  for  statues  and  trophies;  balustraded  ter- 
races border  deep  canals,  and  fountains  bubble  up 
under  formal  groups  of  yew  or  cypress.  The  palace 
casts  deep  shadows  on  the  grass.  It  is  very  still. 
High  walls  encircle  the  enclosure.  The  very  birds  are 
mute.  Not  the  bay  of  a  hound  is  heard.  Moss 
gathers  on  the  paths  and  among  the  tangled  shrub- 
beries, and  no  flowers  catch  the  radiance  of  the  sun- 
shine. Within  is  the  great,  the  terrible  Cardinal.  The 
ground  is  sacred  to  the  despot  of  France,  the  ruler  of 
the  monarch,  the  glance  of  whose  eye  is  death  or  for- 
tune. Journeying  direct  from  Lyons  in  his  chamber 
on  wheels — after  the  execution  of  Cinq-Mars — to  Fon- 
tainebleau,  where  he  rested,  he  is  come  here  to  die. 
Yonder  he  lies  on  a  bed  of  state,  hung  with  embroi- 
dered velvet  in  a  painted  chamber,  the  walls  covered 
with  rare  pictures  and  choicest  tapestry,  the  windows 
looking  towards  the  garden.  The  moment  approaches 
when  he  will  have  to  answer  for  his  merciless  exer- 
cise of  absolute  power  over  king  and  people,  to  that 
Heavenly  Master  whose    priest  and   servant  he   pro- 


62  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

fesses  to  be.  How  will  he  justify  his  bitter  hatred, 
his  arrogant  oppression  of  the  great  princes  and 
nobles  of  France?  How  will  he  meet  the  avenging 
ghosts  of  the  chivalrous  Montmorenci,  the  poetic  Cha- 
lais,  the  gallant  Cinq-Mars,  the  witty  Saint-Preuil,  the 
enthusiastic  Urbain  Grandier,  in  the  unknown  country 
whither  he  is  fast  hastening]  Who  tried  to  seduce, 
then  to  ruin,  the  Queen,  Anne  of  Austria,  and  send 
her  back,  divorced  and  disgraced,  into  Spain?  Who 
turned  the  feeble  Louis  into  a  servile  agent  of  his 
ambition,  and  exercised  over  his  weak  mind  a  tyranny 
as  shameful  to  himself  as  degrading  to  the  sovereign? 
True,  Richelieu  may  plead  reasons  of  State,  a  rebellious 
nobility,  traitorous  princes,  and  an  imbecile  king;  but 
the  isolation  of  the  throne,  begun  under  his  rule,  was 
both  barbarous  and  impolitic,  as  after  ages  showed. 
True  he  possessed  rare  genius,  and  his  life  was  in- 
dustriously devoted  to  what  he  called  'Hhe  glory  of 
France;"  but  it  was  a  mean  and  selfish  glory,  to  at- 
tain which  he  had  waded  through  the  noblest  blood 
of  the  land. 

Look  at  him  now — he  has  just  received  extreme 
unction.  A  hypocrite  to  the  last,  he  folds  his  hands 
on  his  breast  and  exclaims — "This  is  my  God;  as  in 
his  visible  presence,  I  declare  I  have  sacrificed  myself 
to  France."  When  he  is  asked  by  the  officiating  priest 
— "If  he  forgives  his  enemies'?" — he  replies,  "I  have 
no  enemies  but  those  of  the  State."  Now  the  hand  of 
death  is  visibly  upon  him.  In  a  loose  robe  of  purple 
silk,  he  lies  supported  by  pillows  of  fine  lace.  He  is 
hardly  recognisable,  so  great  have  been  his  sufferings, 
so  complete  is  his  weakness;  his  bloodless  lips  pant 
for  breath,  his  hollow  eyes  wander  on  vacancy,  his 


THE  END  OF  THE  CARDINAL.  63 

thin  fingers  work  convulsively  on  the  sheets,  as  though 
striving  against  the  approach  of  invisible  foes. 

But,  before  he  departs,  a  signal  honour  is  reserved 
for  him.  Behold,  the  rich  velvet  curtains,  heavy  with 
golden  embroideries,  are  held  aside  by  pages  who 
carry  plumed  hats  in  their  hands,  and  Louis  XIII. 
enters  hastily.  He  is  bareheaded,  and  is  accompanied 
by  the  princes  of  the  blood  and  the  great  ministers  of 
State.  Louis  is  so  shrunken  and  attenuated,  so  white 
and  large-eyed,  that  in  any  other  presence  he  might 
have  been  deemed  a  dying  man  himself.  As  he  ad- 
vances to  the  rtulle  that  encloses  the  bed,  he  com- 
poses his  thin  lips  and  pinched  face  into  a  decent  ex- 
pression of  condolence.  How  can  he  but  affect  to  de- 
plore the  death  of  a  minister  whose  fierce  passions 
overshadowed  his  whole  life  like  a  moral  upas-tree? 
Nevertheless  the  fitting  phrases  are  spoken,  and  he 
embraces  the  ghastly  form  stretched  out  before  him 
with  a  semblance  of  affection.  The  expiring  Cardinal 
presses  the  hand  of  his  master,  and  makes  a  sign  that 
he  would  speak.  Louis  bows  down  his  head  to  catch 
the  feeble  voice,  which  says — "Sire,  I  thank  you  for 
this  honour;  I  have  spent  my  whole  life  in  your  service. 
I  leave  you  able  ministers;  trust  them,  Sire;  but, — " 
and  he  stops  and  struggles  fearfully  for  breath, — 
"but,  beware  of  your  Court.  It  is  your  petit  coucher 
who  are  dangerous.  Your  favourites  have  troubled 
me  more  than  all  your  enemies."  Then  the  Cardinal 
sinks  back  fainting  on  his  pillows. 

Louis  withdraws  with  affected  concern;  but,  ere  he 
reaches  the  spacious  ante-room,  lined  with  the  Car- 
dinal's retainers  in  magnificent  liveries,  he  bursts  into 
an  inhuman  laugh — "There  goes  a  great  politician  to 


64  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN   FRANCE. 

his  death,"  he  says  to  Chavigny,  who  is  beside  him,  and 
he  points  with  his  thumb  towards  the  Cardinal's  cham- 
ber; "a  wonderful  genius.  Now  he  is  gone  I  shall  be 
free — I  shall  reign."  He  chuckles  with  delight  at  the 
idea  of  being  at  last  rid  of  the  Cardinal;  and  a  grim 
smile  spreads  itself  over  his  ashen  face. 

It  is  a  ghastly  joke,  as  cruel  as  it  is  selfish.  As  if 
Louis's  life  were  bound  up  in  the  existence  of  his 
great  minister — he  is  himself  a  corpse  within  a  yearl 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  Queen-Regent. 

Louis  XIV.  was  four  years  and  a  half  old  when 
his  father  died  at  Saint-Germain,  aged  forty- two. 
Tardy  in  everything,  Louis  XIII.  was  six  weeks  in  dy- 
ing. The  state  christening  of  his  son  was  celebrated 
during  his  illness.  When  asked  his  name,  the  little 
lad  replied,  "I  am  Louis  XI V." 

"Not  yet,  my  son,  not  yet,"  murmured  the  dying 
King,  "but  shortly,  if  so  it  please  God." 

Anne  of  Austria,  named  Regent  by  her  husband's 
will,  rules  in  her  son's  name.  A  splendid  Court  as- 
sembles round  her,  at  the  Louvre,  at  Saint-Germain, 
and  at  Fontainebleau.  Her  exiled  favourites  are 
there  to  do  her  homage.  The  Duchesse  de  Chevreuse, 
after  a  long  sojourn  in  Spain,  England,  and  Flanders, — 
for  she  loves  travel  and  the  adventures  of  the  road, 
either  masked,  or  disguised  as  a  page,  a  priest,  or  a 
cavalier, — is  reinstated  in  her  Majesty's  favour.  In 
Spain  the  Duchess's  vanity  was  gratified  by  enslaving 
a  royal  lover — the  King  of  Spain,  brother  of  Anne  of 
Austria;  in  England  she  diverted  herself  with  foment- 


THE  QUEEN-REGENT.  65 

ing  personal  quarrels  between  Charles  I.  and  Henrietta 
Maria;  in  Flanders — a  dull  country — she  found  little 
to  amuse  her. 

Mademoiselle  de  Hautefort  (soon  to  become  Du- 
chesse  and  Marechale  de  Schomberg)  returns  in  obe- 
dience to  the  Queen's  command,  who  wrote  to  her 
even  while  the  King  was  alive,  "Come,  dearest  friend, 
come  quickly.     I  am  all  impatience  to  embrace  you!" 

The  Duchesse  de  Sennecy  arrives  from  the  pro- 
vinces, and  the  Chevalier  de  Jars  from  England.  The 
latter  had  been  imprisoned  in  the  Bastille,  and  threat- 
ened with  torture  by  Richelieu,  to  force  him  to  betray 
the  Queen's  correspondence  with  Spain  at  the  time  of 
the  Val  de  Grace  conspiracy.  He  had  been  liberated, 
however,  but  while  the  Cardinal  lived  had  remained 
in  England. 

These,  among  many  other  faithful  attendants,  re- 
sume their  places  at  the  petit  coucker,  in  the  grand 
cercle,  and  at  the  morning  lever. 

Then  there  are  the  princes  and  princesses  of  the 
blood-royal: — Monsieur  the  Due  d'Orleans — no  longer 
breathing  vows  of  love  in  the  moonlight,  but  a  veteran 
intriguer — living  on  the  road  to  Spain,  which  always 
meant  rebellion,  together  with  his  daughter,  La  Grande 
Madernoiselle,  a  comely  girl,  the  greatest  heiress  in 
Europe;  Csesar,  Due  de  Vendome,  son  of  Gabrielle 
and  Henry  IV.,  with  his  Duchess  and  his  sons,  the 
Dues  de  Mercceur  and  De  Beaufort;  Conde,  the  un- 
crowned head  of  the  great  house  of  Bourbon — more 
ill-favoured  and  avaricious  than  ever — his  jealous  tem- 
per now  excited  against  the  bastards  of  the  house  of 
Vendome,  with  his  wife,  Charlotte  de  Montmorenci, 
sobered  down  into  a  dignified  matron,  devoted  to  her 

Old  Court  Life  in  France.    II.  5 


66  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

eldest  son,  the  Due  d'Enghien,  and  to  her  daughter, 
the  Duchesse  de  Longueville,  the  brightest  ornament 
of  the  Court;  the  Due  de  la  Rochefoucauld  and  his 
son,  the  Prince  de  Marsillac,  the  author  of  "Les  Max- 
imes,"  to  become  a  shadow  on  the  path  of  the  last- 
named  Duchess,  who  is  to  die  in  a  convent;  the  great 
House  of  La  Tour  d'Auvergne,  Viscomtes  de  Turenne 
and  Dues  de  Bouillon,  from  which  springs  Henri  de 
Turenne,  the  rival  of  young  Conde;  Seguier,  Due  de 
Villemer,  generously  forgiven  for  the  part  he  took 
against  the  Queen  as  Chancellor,  at  the  Val  de  Grace; 
and,  last  of  all,  Henry,  Due  de  Guise — by-and-by  to 
astonish  Europe  by  his  daring  escapade  at  Naples, 
where,  but  for  Masaniello,  he  might  have  been  crowned 
King,  with  the  Queen's  beautiful  maid  of  honour, 
Mademoiselle  de  Pons,  at  his  side. 

There  is  also  about  the  Court  a  young  man  named 
Giulio  Mazarin,  born  in  Rome  of  a  Sicilian  family, 
late  secretary  to  Cardinal  Richelieu.  He  has  passed 
many  years  in  Spain,  and  can  converse  fluently  in 
that  language  with  her  Majesty  whenever  she  deigns 
to  address  him.  He  has  a  pale,  inexpressive  face, 
with  large  black  eyes,  d  fleur  de  tiie,  generally  bent  on 
the  ground.  His  manners  are  modest,  though  in- 
sinuating; his  address  is  gentle,  his  voice  musical. 
Like  all  Italians,  he  is  artistic;  a  conoscente  in  music, 
a  collector  of  pictures,  china,  and  antiquities.  So  un- 
obtrusive and  accomplished  a  gentleman  cannot  fail 
to  please,  especially  as  he  is  only  a  deacon,  and,  with 
a  dispense,  free  to  marry.  The  Queen,  who  often 
converses  with  him  in  her  native  tongue,  appreciates 
his  merits.  Her  minister,  the  Bishop  of  Beauvais, 
leaves  the  Court.     He  finds  that  his  presence  is  use- 


THE  QUEEN-REGENT.  t^ 

less,  as  the  Queen  acts  entirely  under  the  advice  of 
this  young  Italian,  whom  she  also  selects  as  guardian 
to  the  young  King,  who,  poor  simple  boy,  looks  on 
Mazarin  as  a  father. 

The  Regency  begins  auspiciously.  Fifteen  days 
after  the  death  of  Louis  XIII.  the  decisive  victory  of 
Rocroy  was  gained  over  the  Spaniards  by  the  Due 
d'Enghien,  a  youthful  general  of  twenty-two.  Paris 
was  exultant.  The  roads  were  strewed  with  wreaths 
and  flowers;  tapestry  and  banners  hung  from  every 
window,  fountains  of  choicest  wines  flowed  at  the 
corners  of  the  streets,  and  amid  the  booming  of  can- 
non, the  blare  of  trumpets,  the  crash  of  warlike  instru- 
ments, and  the  frantic  shouts  of  an  entire  population, 
the  Queen,  and  her  little  four-year  old  son,  ride  in  a 
gold  coach  to  hear  a  Te  Deum  at  Notre-Dame. 

Her  Majesty's  authority  is  much  increased  by  this 
victory.  Mazarin,  under  favour  of  the  Queen,  gradu- 
ally acquires  more  and  more  power.  He  presides 
at  the  council;  he  administers  the  finances — for  which 
he  came  to  be  called  ''the  plunderer;''  he  tramples 
on  the  parliament  and  bullies  the  young  King.  The 
princes  of  the  blood  and  all  the  young  nobles  are  ex- 
cluded from  offices  of  state  or  places  in  the  household. 
Every  one  begins  to  tremble  before  the  once  modest 
young  Italian,  and  to  recall  with  dismay  the  eighteen 
years  of  Richelieu's  autocracy. 

But  Mazarin  has  a  rival  in  Henri  de  Gondi,  after- 
wards Cardinal  de  Retz,  now  coadjutor  to  his  uncle, 
the  Archbishop  of  Paris.  No  greater  contrast  can  be 
conceived  than  between  the  subtle,  shuffling  Italian, 
patient  as  he  is  false,  and  Gondi,  bold,  liberal,  inde- 
pendent, generous  even  to  his  enemies,   incapable  of 

5* 


68  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

envy  or  deceit,  grasping  each  turn  of  fortune  with  the 
ready  adaptiveness  of  genius,  and  swaying  the  pas- 
sions of  men  by  his  fiery  eloquence;  a  daring  states- 
man, a  resolute  reformer,  one  of  whom  Cromwell  had 
said — "that  he,  De  Retz,  was  the  only  man  in  Europe 
who  despised  him." 

Gondi  considered  himself  sacrificed  to  the  Church 
— for  which  he  had  no  vocation — and  did  his  utmost, 
by  the  libertinism  of  his  early  life,  to  render  his  ordi- 
nation impossible;  but  in  vain.  Although  he  had  ab- 
ducted his  own  cousin,  and  been  the  hero  of  number- 
less scandals,  the  Archbishopric  of  Paris  was  considered 
a  sinecure  in  the  family  of  Gondi,  and  Archbishop 
and  Cardinal  he  must  be  in  spite  of  his  inclination 
and  of  his  excesses.  In  politics  he  was  a  republican, 
formed  on  the  pattern  of  Cato  and  of  Brutus,  whose 
lives  he  had  studied  at  the  Sorbonne.  He  loved  to 
be  compared  to  Cicero  and  to  Cataline,  and  to  believe 
himself  called  on  to  revolutionize  France  after  the 
fashion  of  a  factious  conspirator  of  old  Rome.  He 
longed  to  be  anything  belligerent,  agitative — tribune, 
general,  or  demagogue.  "Ancient  Rome,"  he  said, 
"honoured  crime,  therefore  crime  was  to  be  honoured." 
"Rather  let  me  be  the  leader  of  a  great  party  than  an 
emperor!"  exclaimed  he,  in  the  climax  of  one  of  his 
thrilling  perorations.  The  mild  precepts  of  the  gospel 
were  clearly  little  to  his  taste.  He  had  mistaken  not 
only  his  vocation  but  his  century.  He  should  have 
lived  in  the  Middle  Ages;  and  as  an  ecclesiastical 
prince-militant  led  armies  into  battle,  conquered  terri- 
tories, and  made  laws  to  subject  peoples.  Yet  under- 
lying the  wild  enthusiasm  of  his  language,  and  the 
reckless  energy  of  his  actions,  there  was  a  kindly,  al- 


THE  QUEEN-REGENT.  69 

most  gentle  temper  that  imparted  to  his  character  a 
certain  incompleteness  which  accounts  for  the  falling 
off  of  his  later  years.  Grand,  noble  as  was  De  Retz, 
Mazarin  ultimately  beat  him  and  remained  master  of 
the  situation. 

Under  the  guidance  of  Gondi  (De  Retz)  the  par- 
liament, paralyzed  for  a  time,  soon  learns  its  power, 
and  gives  unmistakable  tokens  of  insubordination 
by  opposing  every  edict  and  tax  proposed  by  the 
Government.  Some  of  the  most  fractious  of  "these 
impertinent  bourgeois,"  as  Conde  called  them,  were 
arrested  and  exhibited  in  chains — like  captives  in  a 
Roman  triumph — at  Notre-Dame  on  the  occasion  of  a 
second  Te  Detim  sung  for  a  second  great  victory  gained 
by  young  Conde.  Mazarin,  by  this  act,  overtaxed  the 
endurance  of  the  citizens.  In  one  night  two  hundred 
barricades  rise  in  the  streets  of  Paris.  The  Queen- 
Regent  can  see  them  from  her  windows.  This  ebul- 
lition of  popular  fury  appears  to  Gondi  as  the  realisa- 
tion of  his  youthful  dreams.  The  moment  has  come 
to  make  him  a  tribune  of  the  people.  He  has  loyally 
warned  the  Regent  of  the  impending  peril.  The  Queen 
considered  his  words  mere  bravado,  and  treated  him 
personally  with  suspicion  and  contempt.  Gondi  was 
warned  that  Mazarin  had  decided  on  his  exile.  His 
generous  nature  was  outraged:  "To-morrow,"  he  said, 
"before  noon,  I  will  be  master  of  Paris."  Noon  did 
see  him  master  of  Paris ;  but,  loose  as  was  his  estimate 
of  the  sacredness  of  his  office,  he  was  still  Archbishop- 
Coadjutor;  he  could  not  personally  lead  the  rabble, 
or  publicly  instigate  the  citizens  to  rebellion.  A  man 
of  straw  m<ist  represent  him,  and  do  what  he  dared 
not — harangue  at  the  crosses  and  corners  of  the  streets- 


yO  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

head  the  popular  assemblies,  and  generally  excite  the 
passions  of  the  turbulent  Parisians  to  fever  heat.  This 
man  of  straw  was  found  in  the  Due  de  Beaufort, 
grandson  of  Henri  Quatre,  through  Gabrielle  d'Estrees, 
— a  dandy,  a  swaggerer,  but  a  warrior. 

Now  the  Due  de  Beaufort,  hot-headed  and  giddy, 
without  either  judgment  or  principles,  cares  little  for 
either  Cardinal,  Coadjutor,  or  Queen, — is  utterly  in- 
different as  to  who  may  rule  or  who  may  serve,  pro- 
vided always  his  own  claims,  as  prince  of  the  blood, 
to  the  most  lucrative  posts  are  admitted.  But  he  does 
care  very  much  for  an  affront  offered  to  the  Duchesse 
de  Montbazon,  of  whom  he  is  desperately  enamoured. 

The  Duchesse  de  Montbazon,  step-mother  of  the 
Duchesse  de  Chevreuse,  and  lady  in  waiting  to  the 
Queen,  finds  late  one  evening,  on  returning  to  her 
hotel,  two  love-letters  dropped  on  the  floor  of  her 
private  closet.  One  is  from  a  gentleman,  the  other  is 
from  a  lady;  both  are  unsigned.  She  of  course  at 
once  decides  that  the  handwriting  of  the  one  is  that 
of  the  lady  she  most  hates,  that  of  the  other,  the  lover 
of  that  same  lady,  whom  she  hates  even  more,  if  pos- 
sible, than  the  lady  herself  Now  the  lady  whom  she 
hates  most  is  the  Duchesse  de  Longueville,  younger, 
more  attractive,  and  more  powerful  than  herself  The 
gentleman  she  selects  is  the  Count  de  Coligni,  who 
had  deserted  her  for  the  sake  of  the  Duchess.  The 
next  morning,  at  the  Queen's  lever,  Madame  de  Mont- 
bazon shows  these  two  love-letters  to  every  one,  and 
being  the  mistress  of  a  caustic  tongue,  makes  some 
diverting  remarks  on  their  contents.  Her  words  are 
repeated  to  the  Duchesse  de  Longueville;  she  denies 
the  fact  altogether.      Her  mother,    the  Princesse   de 


THE  QUEEN-REGENT.  7  I 

Conde,  Charlotte  de  Montmorenci,  broadly  hints  to 
Anne  of  Austria  that  the  Prince  de  Conde,  the  great- 
est general  France  had  ever  possessed  since  the  days 
of  the  Constable  de  Bourbon,  will  join  the  malcontent 
parliament,  nay,  may  even  lead  Spain  into  France,  if 
her  Majesty  does  not  instantly  cause  the  Duchesse  de 
Montbazon  to  retract  all  she  has  said  of  his  sister. 
Such  is  patriotism  under  the  Regency!  The  Queen, 
overwhelmed  by  the  clamour  of  the  two  duchesses, 
invokes  the  help  of  Cardinal  Mazarin.  The  Cardinal, 
in  his  Italian-French,  soothes  and  persuades  both, 
muttering  many  classic  oaths  of  Cospetto  and  Corpo  di 
Bacco  under  his  breath.  He  goes  to  and  fro  between 
the  ladies,  flatters  both,  and  proposes  terms  of  apo- 
logy. Every  suggestion  is  objected  to;  an  hour  is 
spent  over  each  word.  Such  a  negotiation  is  far  more 
difficult  than  the  government  of  France.  All  conclu- 
sion seeming  impossible,  the  Queen  at  last  speaks  with 
authority.  She  says  that  "if  Madame  de  Montbazon 
will  not  retract  she  shall  lose  her  place  at  Court." 

So  Spain  is  not  at  this  time  to  invade  France  under 
the  command  of  Conde,  and  the  Duchesse  de  Longue- 
ville  is  to  receive  an  apology. 

The  apology  is  to  be  made  at  the  Hotel  de  Conde. 
The  Duchesse  de  Longueville — a  superb  blonde,  with 
melting  blue  eyes,  golden  brown  hair,  transparent  com- 
plexion, and  a  dazzling  neck  and  shoulders,  a  coronet 
of  orient  pearls  and  a  red  feather  on  her  head,  a 
chaplet  of  the  same  jewels  clasping  her  throat,  wear- 
ing a  robe  of  blue  tissue,  bordered  and  worked  with 
pearls — stands  in  the  great  saloon  of  her  father's  an- 
cestral palace.  Her  feet  rest  on  a  dais  of  cloth  of 
gold  and   silver;    the    dais    is   covered  by  a  canopy 


•J 2  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

spangled  with  stars.  The  walls  of  the  saloon  are 
covered  with  bright  frescoes  of  birds,  fruit,  and  flowers, 
panelled  into  golden  frames.  Four  great  chandeliers 
of  crystal  and  silver  are  placed  on  pedestals  at  each 
comer  of  the  room,  lighting  up  a  glittering  crowd  of 
princes  and  princesses  of  the  blood  who  stand  beside 
the  Duchess  on  the  estrade.  The  greatest  nobles  of 
France  are  present.  The  doors  are  flung  open,  and 
theDuchessedeMontbazon,  a  dainty  brunette,  brilliant, 
audacious,  enticing,  who,  although  forty,  is  still  in  the 
zenith  of  her  charms,  flashes  into  the  room  in  full 
court  costume,  her  sacque  (or  train)  of  amber  satin 
brocaded  with  gold  reaching  many  yards  behind  her. 
The  colour  on  her  cheeks  is  heightened  either  by 
rouge  or  passion;  her  eyes  glitter,  and  her  whole  bear- 
ing is  of  one  who  would  say,  "I  must  do  this,  but  I 
defy  you."  She  knows  that  all  the  gentlemen  take 
part  with  her,  if  the  ladies  side  with  her  enemy.  She 
walks  straight  up  to  the  dais  on  which  the  Duchesse 
de  Longueville,  nSe  Princesse  de  Conde,  stands,  stops, 
looks  her  full  in  the  face,  then  leisurely  and  with  the 
utmost  unconcern  casts  her  eyes  round  on  the  company, 
smiles  sweetly  to  the  Due  de  Beaufort,  and  bows  to 
those  princes  and  nobles  who  are  her  champions,  par- 
ticularly to  the  Dues  d'Orleans  and  De  Guise.  Then 
she  unfolds  her  painted  fan,  and  with  insolent  uncon- 
cern reads  what  follows  from  a  slip  of  pink  paper 
attached  to  one  of  the  jewelled  sticks. 

"Madame,  I  come  here  to  assure  your  highness  that 
I  am  quite  innocent  of  any  intention  of  injuring  you. 
Had  it  not  been  so  I  would  humbly  beg  your  pardon, 
and  willingly  submit  to  any  punishment  her  Majesty 
might  see  fit  to  impose  on  me.     I  entreat  you  there- 


THE  QUEEN-REGENT.  73 

fore  to  believe  that  I  have  never  failed  in  the  esteem 
which  your  virtues  command,  nor  in  the  respect  due 
to  your  high  rank." 

The  Duchesse  de  Longueville's  soft  blue  eyes, 
usually  incapable  of  any  other  expression  but  tender- 
ness or  supplication,  look  absolutely  wicked,  so  defiant 
is  the  bearing  of  Madame  de  Montbazon.  She  ad- 
vances to  the  edge  of  the  estrade,  draws  herself  up 
with  an  imperious  air,  and  casting  a  haughty  glance 
at  her  rival,  who,  crimson  in  the  face,  is  fanning  her- 
self violently  and  ogling  the  Due  de  Beaufort,  reading 
also  from  her  fan,  pronounces  the  following  words, 
dictated  by  Cardinal  Mazarin: — 

"Madame,  I  am  willing  to  believe  that  you  took 
no  part  in  the  calumny  which  has  been  circulated  to 
my  prejudice.  I  make  this  acknowledgment  in  defer- 
ence to  the  commands  of  the  Queen." 

Thus  ends  the  quarrel;  but  not  the  consequences. 
The  whole  Court  and  city  is  in  an  uproar.  The  citizens 
are  deeply  interested,  and  to  a  man  take  part  with  the 
chire  amie  of  Beaufort  against  the  Duchesse  de  Longue- 
ville,  and  against  Conde  and  Mazarin. 

Conde  is  not  sure  if  he  will  not  after  all  lead  the 
Spaniards  against  France.  The  Duchesse  de  Montbazon 
feeds  the  flame  for  her  private  ends.  She  lays  all  the 
blame  of  her  humiliation  on  Cardinal  Mazarin,  which 
exasperates  Beaufort  to  madness.  She  incites  Henri, 
Due  de  Guise,  another  of  her  adorers — the  wildest, 
bravest,  and  most  dissolute  of  princes — to  challenge 
the  Comte  de  Coligni,  whom  she  had  designated  as 
the  writer  of  one  of  the  love-letters.  A  duel  is  fought 
in  the  Place  Royale.  The  Duchesse  de  Montbazon 
watches  the  while   out  of  a  window  of  the  palace  of 


74  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

the  Due  de  Rohan,  her  cousin.  CoHgni  is  killed.  He 
falls,  it  is  said,  into  the  arms  of  the  Duchesse  de 
Longueville,  who  is  present  on  the  Place,  disguised 
as  a  page. 

The  Due  de  Beaufort,  whose  turbulent  folly  fore- 
shadows the  grand  seigneur  of  later  reigns  and  almost 
excuses  the  great  Revolution,  refuses  to  receive  a  royal 
herald,  sent  to  him  by  the  Queen,  turns  his  back  upon 
her  Majesty  at  her  lever,  and  threatens  the  life  of  the 
Cardinal.    The  Duchesse  de  Montbazon  is  banished. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The     Due    de    Beaufort. 

The  Due  de  Beaufort  is  summoned  to  a  private 
audience  at  the  Louvre.  On  his  way  up  the  grand 
staircase  entering  from  the  inner  quadrangle  he  meets 
his  mother,  the  Duchesse  de  Vendome,  and  his  sister, 
the  Duchesse  de  Nemours,  who,  their  attendance  on 
the  Queen  over,  are  descending. 

."Good  God!  Francis,"  cries  his  mother,  raising  her 
hands  with  a  gesture  of  horror,  "I  thought  you  were 
safe  at  Rambouillet.  You  within  the  Louvre  at  this 
moment?  You  must  be  mad!"  And  she  throws  her- 
self upon  him  and  tries  to  bar  his  further  passage. 

"Oh,  my  brother!"  exclaims  his  sister  Nemours,  in 
the  same  breath,  throwing  her  arms  around  his  neck; 
"in  the  name  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  do  not  tempt  your 
fate.  Fly,  dear  Francis — fly,  while  you  can — our  coach 
•is  waiting  below — come  with  us  instantly."  And  Ma- 
dame de  Nemours  takes  him  by  the  arm,  and  tries  to 
draw  him  downwards. 

Beaufort  plants  himself  firmly  on   the   stair.     His 


THE  1)UC  DE  BEAUFORT.  75 

first  impulse  is  to  push  them  both  forcibly  aside,  and 
to  proceed;  his  next  to  curse  their  folly  in  the  spicy 
argot  of  the  haUes.  He  does  neither;  but  stands  open- 
mouthed,  his  fierce  eyes  demanding  an  explanation  he 
does  not  condescend  to  ask.  The  explanation  is  soon 
forthcoming. 

"My  son,"  cries  his  mother,  bursting  into  tears, 
and  seizing  on  his  hand  to  detain  him,  as  he  makes 
a  motion  as  if  to  evade  them,  "listen  to  me,  I  implore 
you.  Your  sister  and  I  have  been  in  waiting  on  the 
Queen  many  hours  to-day.  She  is  terribly  incensed 
against  you.  People  have  been  coming  all  day  with 
tales  to  her  here,  at  the  Louvre.  Crowds  have  filled 
her  audience  chamber." 

''Mille  Diables!  What  do  you  mean,  mother?" 
bursts  out  Beaufort,  shaking  himself  free  from  both 
ladies.  "You  call  me  mad,  if  any  one  be  mad  it  is 
yourselves.  I  am  here,  summoned  by  the  Queen  her- 
self, to  a  private  audience.  Ventre  de  via  vie!" — Beau- 
fort much  affects  some  of  the  favourite  oaths  of  his 
grandfather,  Henri  Quatre — "what  are  her  Majesty's 
humours  to  me?" 

"Oh,  Francis,"  sobs  the  Duchesse  de  Nemours, 
"what  have  you  done?  You  have  threatened  the  life 
of  Cardinal  Mazarin.  The  Queen  knows  it.  She  has 
sent  for  you  to  secure  your  person.  She  can  have  no 
other  motive.  '  Nothing  can  exceed  her  indignation. 
She  said,  in  my  hearing,  that  you  had  personally  in- 
sulted her;  that  your  party,  the  Importants,  was  the 
'curse  of  her  reign;  and  that  the  Duchesse  de  Montbazon 
corrupted  the  princes  of  the  blood  by  her  intrigues. 
In  the  name  of  heaven,  do  not  venture  near  her  Ma- 
jesty if  you  value  your  liberty,  or  even  your  life!" 


76  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

The  Duchesse  de  Vendome  wrings  her  hands  while 
her  daughter  is  speaking. 

"For  my  sake,  quit  Paris,  my  dear  son.  If  you 
remain,  not  even  Gondi  can  save  you.  Come  with  us 
instantly,  and  cross  the  frontier  while  you  can." 

Her  words  are  broken;  she  trembles  at  her  son's 
manifest  danger;  Beaufort  looks  at  her,  shakes  his 
head,  and  bursts  into  a  loud  laugh. 

"You  are  a  couple  of  lunatics,  both  of  you" — and 
again  he  laughs — "I  shall  not  leave  Paris;  I  will  not 
even  hide  myself.  Calm  yourself,  mother" — and  he 
kisses  her  on  the  cheek — "her  Majesty  has  summoned 
me  to  a  private  audience.  I  shall  obey  her.  She  is 
no  traitress.  I  have  been  guilty  of  rudeness  towards 
her.  I  go  to  wipe  ouf  the  remembrance  of  it.  I  am 
rough,  but  not  brutal,  specially  to  the  Queen.  Besides, 
they  dare  not  arrest  me."  * 

Saying  which,  he  pushes  his  mother  and  sister,  who 
still  endeavour  to  stop  him,  on  one  side,  and  bounds 
up  the  stairs. 

It  is  evening.  Anne  of  Austria  is  alone  in  a  spacious 
withdrawing  room,  from  which  her  private  writing-closet 
opens.  Four  lofty  windows  turn  towards  the  river — 
one  is  open.  She  sits  beside  it,  gazing  at  the  dazzling 
tints  of  the  summer  sunset  that  lace  the  western  heavens 
with  bars  of  fire.  In  front  rise  the  double  towers  of 
Notre-Dame.  The  fretted  spire  of  the  Sainte-Chapelle 
glistens  against  a  bank  of  heavy  clouds  that  are  rapidly 
welling  up  from  the  south.  These  clouds  deepen  with 
the  twilight.  The  lustre  of  a  stormy  sunset  soon  fade^ 
out.   The  sun  disappears,  and  darker  and  denser  clouds 

*  These  words ,  spoken  by  the  Due  de  Beaufort ,  are  the  same  as  those 
of  the  Balafre,  at  Blois,  before  his  assassination  by  Henry  IIL 


THE  DUC  DE  BEAUFORT.  77 

gather  and  thicken,  and  obscure  the  light.  Low  thunder 
rumbles  in  the  distance,  and  a  few  heavy  raindrops 
descend.  Long  shadows  fall  across  the  floor,  the  corners 
of  the  room  grow  dark,  and  only  a  few  bright  gleams, 
lingering  low  on  the  horizon,  rest  on  the  Queen's  face 
and  figure. 

Anne  of  Austria  has  now  passed  into  middle  life; 
her  form  is  full,  her  movements  heavy.  The  glorious 
eyes  are  still  lustrous,  but  no  longer  flash  with  the  fire 
of  youth.  Her  hair,  though  still  abundant,  has  lost  its 
glossy  brightness.  Her  dress  is  rich,  her  bearing  cold 
and  stately.  She  affects  a  distant,  almost  a  haughty 
manner,  and  is  severe  in  'exacting  the  most  rigid 
etiquette  from  all  who  approach  her,  save  alone  the 
Cardinal.  He  comes  and  goes  as  he  lists,  smiling  and 
obsequious,  but  no  longer  humble  or  subservient  as  of 
yore.  Indeed,  at  times  he  treats  her  Majesty  with  ab- 
solute familiarity,  to  the  utter  dismay  of  the  Duchesse 
de  Chevreuse  and  Mademoiselle  de  Hautefort.  When 
not  engaged  with  Mazarin  in  state  affairs,  or  in  giving 
audiences,  the  Queen  passes  her  time  in  her  oratory. 
Not  only  is  she  devout  herself,  but  exacts  at  all  events 
the  same  outward  show  of  piety  from  her  ladies. 

Twilight  has  deepened  into  gloom,  ere  the  Due  de 
Beaufort  enters.  He  stands  in  shadow,  and  as  he 
glances  at  the  Queen,  he  inwardly  apostrophises  his 
mother  and  sister  as  a  couple  of  fools  and  gossips,  for 
imagining  him  to  be  in  any  danger  of  her  displeasure. 
His  boisterous  bearing— for  he  aftects  the  manners  of 
the  lowest  of  the  populace,  the  better  to  sway  them, 
and  by  so  doing  to  embarrass  the  minister — is  visibly 
softened.  He  remembers  with  pain  the  insults  of  which 
he  has  been  guilty  in  turning  his  back  on  the  Queen, 


78  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

when  they  last  met,  and  in  refusing  to  receive  her 
herald.  He  is  both  repentant  and  flattered  at  her  sum- 
mons. His  obeisance  to  her  is  unusually  low,  and 
some  tokens  of  emotion  betray  themselves  on  his  dissi- 
pated though  handsome  countenance. 

"Good  evening,  cousin,"  says  Anne  of  Austria,  as 
he  enters,  a  gracious  smile  upon  her  face,  and  with 
that  queenly  grace  natural  to  her,  she  presents  her 
still  beautiful  hand  to  him,  which  he  kisses  kneeling. 
"Where  have  you  been  these  four  days  pastl  You  are 
a  stranger  at  the  Louvre." 

Her  voice  is  sweet,  her  look  is  gentle.  It  is  im- 
possible that  what  Beaufort  has  heard  can  be  true. 

"Madame,"  he  answers,  bowing,  "had  I  not  been 
absent  from  Paris,  1  should  not  have  failed  to  present 
my  duty  to  your  Majesty.  But  I  am  only  just  returned 
from  a  hunting-party  at  Rambouillet,  whither  I  went 
with  my  brother-in-law,  Nemours.  Until  I  came  back 
I  did  not  know  that  you  had  asked  for  me.  What  can 
I  do  for  your  Majesty's  service?  I  am  always  at  your 
command." 

"Ah,  cousin,  you  are  always  at  my  command,  I 
know,"  answers  the  Queen,  repeating  his  words,  and 
she  gives  a  little  laugh.  Beaufort  winces  at  the  covert 
rebuke.  He  feels  that  her  meaning  must  be  ironical, 
yet  she  speaks  caressingly,  and  the  same  gracious  smile 
still  plays  about  her  mouth. 

"You  once  called  me  the  most  honourable  man 
in  France,  Madame;  I  am  proud  to  rememner  it." 
Beaufort  speaks  roughly,  and  in  a  loud  voice;  the  mo- 
mentary polish  is  passing  away  with  the  momentary 
emotion.  "I  am  what  I  ever  was.  I  do  not  change. 
I  wish  I  could  say  the  same  of  your  Majesty.   Madame, 


THE  DUC  DE  BEAUFORT.  79 

you  have  greatly  altered,"  and  he  looks  at  her  straight 
in  the  face.  Anne  of  Austria  shifts  her  position,  so  as 
to  sit  in  shadow,  then  she  replies:  — 

"I  have  no  special  purpose  in  summoning  you, 
cousin,  save  for  the  satisfaction  your  presence  here 
gives  me."  Again  Beaufort  feels  the  covert  stab,  and 
observes  that  she  studiously  avoids  noticing  his  remarks 
on  her  altered  conduct  towards  him. 

"You  and  I,"  ad^s  the  Queen,  in  a  voice  strangely 
monotonous,  "are  indeed  old  friends  and  comrades  as 
well  as  cousins." 

"You  have  not  a  truer  friend  in  all  France  than  I 
am,"  answers  the  Duke  vehemently,  and  he  advances 
a  step  or  two  towards  the  window,  near  which  the 
Queen  sits,  raises  his  hand  to  emphasise  his  words, 
and  lets  it  fall  so  heavily  on  a  table  near  as  to  make 
the  whole  room  echo.  The  Queen  still  smiles  gra- 
ciously. 

"Yes,  Madame,  I  am  no  courtier;  I  hate  Courts; 
but  before  you  made  that  Italian /"acfy^zwo  your  favourite 
you  relied  on  Beaufort."  As  he  pronounced  the  Car- 
dinal's name  his  face  hardens  and  his  hands  clench 
themselves;  an  almost  imperceptible  shudder  passes 
over  the  Queen.     Then  he  continues:  — 

"Was  it  not  to  Beaufort  that  you  entrusted  the 
sacred  person  of  his  Majesty  and  your  own  safety  after 
the  death  of  your  husband,  before  the  Regency  was 
settled?" 

Anne  of  Austria  bows  her  head  in  silence.  She  is 
evidently  determined  not  to  take  offence.  If  any  one 
else  had  dared  to  mention  the  Cardinal  to  her  in 
such  language  she  would  have  ordered  him  to  the 
Bastille. 


80  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

Had  the  Duke  been  less  giddy  this  knowledge 
ought  to  have  curbed  him,  especially  after  the  warning 
he  had  received;  but  his  thoughts  are  now  passing 
into  a  different  channel,  and  he  heeds  it  not. 

"Yes,  cousin,  I  have  known  you  long,  and  closely," 
is  the  Queen's  cautious  rejoinder.  "You  have  been  at 
Rambouillet,  Prince,"  she  continues;  "have  you  had 
good  sport  1  The  canals  there  are,  I  am  told,  full  of 
fat  carp.     Do  you  love  fishing ?" 

The  Duke  stares  at  her  without  replying.  The 
Queen,  who  appears  to  desire  to  continue  the  conver- 
sation, yet  to  avoid  all  discussion,  still  speaks — 

"My  son  will  grow  up  to  be  a  keen  sportsman,  I 
hope.  The  royal  forests  must  be  better  guarded.  Did 
you  and  the  Due  de  Nemours  find  any  deer  at  Ram- 
bouilletl" 

Spite  of  the  Queen's  unusual  loquacity,  there  is 
something  in  her  manner  which  irritates  the  excitable 
Duke.  He  cannot  altogether  convince  himself  that 
she  is  not  mocking  him.  He  had  come  certainly  re- 
pentant, but  his  fiery  temper  now  overmasters  him  at 
the  bare  suspicion. 

"Did  your  Majesty  send  for  me  to  put  such  ques- 
tions as  thesel"  cries  he  roughly.  "If  so,  I  would 
rather  have  stayed  at  Rambouillet." 

"Truly,  Duke,"  replies  the  Queen  evasively,  colour- 
ing at  his  bluntness,  "it  is  difficult  to  content  you.  I 
have  already  said  that  I  summoned  you  for  no  special 
purpose,  save  that  we  might  converse  together"  —  and 
she  stops  suddenly,  and  hesitates  —  "as  cousins,  and 
as  friends." 

This  last  word  is  spoken  slowly  and  with  manifest 
effort.     Her  voice,  which  has  a  strange  ring  in  it,   is 


THE  DUC  DE  BEAUFORT.  8  I 

drowned  by  a  clap  of  thunder,  still  distant,  and  a  flash 
of  lightning  illuminates  the  room  for  an  instant,  and 
rests  upon  the  long  fair  hair  and  frowning  countenance 
of  Beaufort.  Her  words  are  bland,  but  her  bearing  is 
distant  and  constrained.  Even  the  unobservant  Beau- 
fort is  struck  by  this  anomaly;  but  he  attributes  it  to 
some  vestige  of  displeasure  at  his  late  conduct. 

"I  trust,  Madame,  you  will  always  treat  me  with 
the  confidence  proper  to  both  these  titles,"  he  replies 
stiffly. 

Her  words  appease,  but  do  not  satisfy  him.  Even 
while  speaking,  the  Queen  has  turned  her  head  towards 
the  door  of  her  writing-closet,  and  listens.  The  wind 
roars  without,  and  the  waters  of  the  Seine  dash  them- 
selves against  the  low  walls  that  border  the  Quay,  but 
no  sound  within  is  audible.  Anne  of  Austria  resumes 
the  conversation  as  though  talking  against  time.  But 
Beaufort,  naturally  unobservant,  is  now  too  much  ex- 
cited to  notice  this.  He  has  forgotten  all  that  his 
mother  and  sister  had  said.  Not  the  slightest  suspicion 
crosses  his  mind. 

"It  is  a  boisterous  evening,"  continues  the  Queen, 
looking  out  of  the  window — a  faint  flash  of  lightning 
plays  round  her  darkly  robed  figure — "but  the  storm 
is  still  distant.  By-the-bye,  my  cousin,  am  I  to  con- 
gratulate you  on  being  appointed  beadle  of  Saint- 
Nicholas  des  Champsi"  asks  the  Queen,  still  smiling. 
"The  bourgeoisie  must  be  greatly  flattered  by  your 
condescension." 

"That  is  a  matter  of  opinion,"  answers  Beaufort. 
"I  glory  in  belonging  to  the  people.  I  would  rather 
be  called  Roi  des  Halles  than  King  of  France." 

The  Queen  says  no  more,   again  she  listens.     She 

Old  Court  Lift  in  France.   II.  6 


82  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

seems  more  and  more  embarrassed,  and  the  conversa- 
tion languishes.  The  Duke  begins  to  be  conscious 
that  something  is  amiss.  He  even  goes  the  length  of 
secretly  wishing  that  the  interview  were  over.  A  heavi- 
ness oppresses  him;  it  is  stiflingly  hot,  and  the  thunder 
sounds  nearer.  The  image  of  his  mother  weeping 
bitterly  rises  up,  unbidden,  before  him.  Can  there 
be  any  truth  in  her  warning? 

"  Yes,"  continues  Beaufort  after  an  awkward  pause, 
"Yes,  I  may  be  too  much  of  a  Frondeur  to  please  you, 
Madame,  and  for  my  own  safety  also."  Again  the 
Queen  turns  her  head,  and  listens  anxiously.  "A 
Frondeur  against  a  government  headed  by  an  alien — 
not  z.  Frondeur  against  you,  my  cousin — never  against 
you.  To  you  I  am  ever  loyal.  You  know  this."  His 
voice  grows  thick.  He  is  much  moved.  "You,  my 
cousin,  can  never  forget  my  long  exile  after  the  death 
of  Cinq-Mars  at  Lyons  for  your  sake.  Surely  you 
cannot  forget?" 

Anne  moves  uneasily;  she  taps  her  small  foot  on 
the  floor  impatiently.  Her  eyes  are  bent  outwards 
upon  the  approaching  storm,  which  draws  each  instant 
nearer.  The  heavens  are  now  like  a  wall  of  black- 
ness, save  where  the  lightning  glitters  for  a  moment. 
Yet  she  neither  calls  for  lights,  nor  closes  the  window. 

"Next  to  the  Duchesse  de  Chevreuse,"  Beaufort 
continues,  "Richelieu  hated  me,  because  I  was  devoted 
soul  and  body  to  you,  and  he  knew  it.  Ah,  my 
cousin,  had  the  Duchess  and  I,  your  two  friends, 
spoken,  where  would  you  have  been  now?  Not  on 
the  throne,  certainly.  I  carried  your  secret  safely  into 
England,  with  me — I  would  have  carried  it  to  the 
grave — and  you  are  Regent  of  France." 


THE  DUG  DE  BEAUFORT.  83 

Whatever  the  Queen  may  feel,  she  carefully  con- 
ceals it.  A  stony  expression  spreads  itself  over  her 
face,  and  the  smile  on  her  lip  becomes  almost  a 
grimace,  her  mouth  is  so  tightly  set. 

"If  I  am  grown  rough  and  coarse,"  he  continues, 
"like  the  rabble  among  whom  I  live — if  I  offend  you 
by  my  frankness,  remember  Beaufort  was  faithful  to 
you  in  adversity — most  true  and  faithful." 

The  tears  come  into  his  eyes  as  he  speaks;  he 
brushes  them  off  with  his  sleeve.  The  Queen  is  not 
at  all  moved  by  this  appeal.  A  third  time  she  turns 
her  head  as  if  listening  for  some  expected  sound — 
then,  hearing  nothing,  her  eyelids  drop,  and  she  plays 
with  her  fan. 

"These  are  difficult  times,  my  cousin,"  she  says 
at  last,  speaking  slowly.  "Much  depends  on  the 
princes  of  the  blood.  I  reckon  on  you,  Duke,  as  a 
firm  pillar  of  the  State,"  and  she  touches  him  with 
her  fan. 

Beaufort  starts.  "Would  I  were  such  a  pillar!" 
he  exclaims  with  warmth.  "Take  Gondi  as  your 
minister,  my  cousin.  Send  Mazarin  back  to  the  Roman 
gutter  from  whence  he  sprung.  You  would  have  no 
more  trouble  with  the  parliament.  I  warrant  you  they 
would  obey  you  like  lambs,  my  cousin.  Banish  Mazarin, 
and  I  will  lead  you  and  the  young  King  in  triumph 
throughout  France.  Not  a  Frondeur  would  be  left  in 
the  land.  If  there  were,  I  would  shoot  him  with  my 
own  hand.     Answer  me,  Madame;  will  you  try?" 

Beaufort  stretches  out  his  hand  as  he  speaks  to 
clasp  that  of  the  Queen.  Anne  neither  stirs,  neither 
looks  up,  nor  touches  his  hand.  To  speak  is  evidently 
difficult  to  her.     Surely  she  must  be  expecting  some 


84  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

one,  for  she  again  turns  her  head  towards  the  writing- 
closet  and  listens.  A  sharp  clap  of  thunder  rattles 
through  the  room;  when  it  is  past  her  eyes  rest  upon 
the  Duke,  who  is  eagerly  awaiting  her  reply.  The  set 
smile  is  still  on  her  lips;  she  is  about  to  answer  him, 
when  a  distinct  sound  of  footsteps  is  heard  within  in 
her  writing-closet.  A  page  enters,  and  announces 
Cardinal  Mazarin's  arrival  to  consult  her  Majesty  on 
urgent  state  business.  Beaufort's  face  darkens.  Ere 
the  page  has  ceased  speaking,  the  long-gathering  storm 
bursts  forth  with  fury.  A  tremendous  peal  of  thunder 
shakes  the  palace,  and  big  drops  of  rain  are  driven 
through  the  window.  The  Queen  rises  hastily  and 
signs  to  the  page  to  close  the  sash.  She  is  evidently 
greatly  relieved.  "I  regret  this  interruption,  Prince," 
she  says,  speaking  rapidly,  "but  it  is  unavoidable.  I 
must  not  keep  the  Cardinal  waiting.  I  cannot,  how- 
ever, consider  your  audience  as  over.  Will  your  high- 
ness favour  me  by  remaining  in  the  apartments  of 
the  ladies  of  honour  until  I  am  freel"  and,  not  wait- 
ing for  his  reply,  she  hastily  passes  into  her  closet. 
Deluges  of  rain  fall,  flash  after  flash  lights  up  the 
heavens,  and  peals  of  thunder  rapidly  succeed  each 
other. 

The  Due  de  Beaufort  finds  the  Duchesse  de 
Chevreuse  and  Mademoiselle  de  Hautefort  sitting  to- 
gether in  one  of  the  apartments  of  the  suite  allotted 
to  the  ladies  in  waiting.  As  he  enters  they  both 
rise  hurriedly,  and  contemplate  him  in  mute  astonish- 
ment. 

"Why,  Duke,"  cries  the  Duchess,  "is  it  possible  1 
You  here?     You  in  the  Louvre?" 

"And  why  not,  madame?     What  do  these  chatter- 


THE  DUG  DE  BEAUFORT.  85 

ing  women  meanl"  he  mutters  to  himself.  "One  would 
think  I  were  a  monster." 

"What!  have  you  not  heard,  that  you  are  accused 
of  a  plot  to  assassinate  the  Cardinal" 

"The  Queen  knows  the  particulars,"  broke  in 
Mademoiselle  de  Hautefort.  "She  told  me  so  at  her 
lever  this  morning." 

"Perhaps  you  will  kindly  inform  me  what  these 
particulars  are,  madamel"  replies  Beaufort  savagely. 

"Why,  Duke,  you  must  be  out  of  your  senses!" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,  madame;  pray  let  me  hear 
of  what  I  am  accused." 

"Why,  that  in  order  to  take  the  Cardinal's  life 
you  had  stationed  soldiers  in  ambush  along  the  road 
to  Longchamps,  to  fire  on  him,  as  he  passed  in  his 
coach  on  his  way  to  dine  with  the  President  Maison." 

"The  simple-hearted  Cardinal!  Imagine,  your 
highness,"  cries  the  Duchess,  "Signor  Giulio,  after 
having  said  his.  prayers,  trotting  along  demurely  in 
his  red  coach,  a  perfect  angel — wanting  only  wings 
to  fly  away  from  a  wicked  world,  innocent  of  so  much 
as  an  evil  thought!  We  know  you  are  a  Frondeiir, 
Duke,  but  you  are  also  a  barbarian  to  desire  the 
life  of  such  a  saint,"  and  the  Duchess  laughs  her 
merry  laugh. 

"Perhaps,  madame,"  says  Beaufort,  turning  to- 
wards Mademoiselle  de  Hautefort,  "you  will  have  the 
goodness  to  proceed  in  the  relation  of  my  supposed 
crime?" 

"I  have  neither  the  wit  nor  the  high  spirits  of  her 
Grace  of  Lorraine,"  replies  she,  "to  jest.  I  assure 
you,  Duke,  it  is  a  very  grave  matter.  You  are  in  the 
utmost  danger.     The  Cardinal  has  made  her  Majesty 


86  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

believe  that  his  Hfe  was  only  saved  by  the  accidental 
arrival  of  the  Due  d'Orleans — who  was  going  to  dine 
at  the  same  party — on  horseback,  and  who,  as  a  violent 
shower  of  rain  came  on,  dismounted  and  got  into  the 
Cardinal's  coach.  His  presence  saved  the  Cardinal, 
the  guard  could  not  fire  upon  his  Royal  Highness. 
You  may  imagine  the  agitation  of  her  Majesty," 

"Capital,  capital!"  exclaims  the  Duchess,  clapping 
her  hands,  and  still  laughing;  "admirably  done.  I 
never  gave  your  highness  credit  for  so  much  inven- 
tion. What  a  pity  the  Due  d'Orleans  did  not  start  a 
little  sooner,"  adds  she,  in  a  lower  voice,  "or  that  it 
rained!  Signer  Giulio  would  have  been  in  heaven  by 
this  time." 

The  Due  de  Beaufort  sees  that  Mademoiselle  de 
Hautefort  looks  both  concerned  and  vexed  at  this 
levity.  He  had  left  his  mother  and  sister  as  he  en- 
tered in  tears.    Was  it  possible  all  this  might  be  true? 

"I  beseech  you,  Duke,  to  leave  the  Louvre  while 
you  can,"  says  Mademoiselle  de  Hautefort,  very 
earnestly. 

"But  I  am  waiting  here,  madame,  at  the  express 
command  of  her  Majesty,  until  Mazarin,  with  whom 
she  is  now  engaged  in  the  council-chamber,  retires." 

"Are  they  alone?"  asks  the  Duchess. 

"Yes,  madame." 

"Then,  Duke,  I  do  advise  you  at  once  to  escape 
while  you  can.  If  her  Majesty  told  you  to  remain, 
and  she  is  now  closeted  with  Mazarin,  the  sooner  you 
pass  the  gates  of  Paris  the  better;  unless  your  high- 
ness particularly  desire  to  air  the  best  set  of  rooms  in 
the  Bastille;  and  even  they  are  dull,"   she  adds,  with 


THE  DUC  DE  BEAUFORT.  87 

that  invincible  desire  to  laugh  and  make  others  laugh, 
at  once  her  charm  and  her  defect. 

Careless  as  is  the  Due  de  Beaufort,  his  confidence 
is  shaken.  He  had  taken  up  his  velvet  cap  to  depart, 
when  a  knock  is  heard  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  cries  the  Duchess. 

It  was  Guitaut,  Captain  of  the  Queen's  Guards. 
He  walks  up  to  the  Duke,  and  lays  his  hand  on  his 
shoulder:  "I  command  your  highness  to  follow  me,  in 
the  name  of  the  King  and  of  the  Queen-Regent." 

Even  the  Duchess  becomes  serious. 

Beaufort  eyes  Guitaut  for  some  time  in  silence. 
"This  is  very  strange,  Guitaut.  There  must  be  some 
mistake.  I  am  here  by  her  Majesty's  commands, 
awaiting  a  further  audience." 

"I  know  nothing  of  that,  your  highness.  My  in- 
structions are  precise.     You  are  under  arrest." 

Beaufort  unbuckles  his  sword.  He  presents  it  to 
Guitaut.  Then  he  turns  to  the  Duchess  and  Made- 
moiselle de  Hautefort,  whose  countenances  express  the 
concern  they  both  feel.  "You  are  witness,  ladies,  that 
I,  a  prince  of  the  blood,  am  arrested  when,  in  obedience 
to  her  Majesty's  commands,  I  am  awaiting  the  honour 
of  a  further  audience.  Pardieu,  that  sneaking  varlet, 
Mazarin,  shall  pay  for  this.  The  Coadjutor  will  revenge 
me.  Lead  on,  Guitaut.  Where  is  it  to  be]  The 
Bastille  1" 

"I  have  orders  to  conduct  your  highness  to  the 
Castle  of  Vincennes,"  replies  Guitaut,  bowing. 

"To  Vincennes!  And  by  the  Queen's  order!  Ventre 
de  ma  vie!  she  is  a  traitress  after  all!" 


88  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN   FRANCE. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Midnight  Visitors. 

The  Queen  could  no  longer  appear  in  the  sti'eets 
without  insult.  The  mob  laughed  in  her  face,  and 
called  her  Madame  Anne.  They  saluted  Mazarin  with 
howls,  as  her  Bon  ami;  some  said  Amant.  The  words 
sound  much  alike  when  shouted  by  a  mob,  and  are 
not  indeed  always  different  in  point  of  fact.  Gondi, 
in  the  parliament,  uttered  thrilling  words  about  la 
belle  France  going  to  perdition  betAjeen  a  Spanish 
regent  and  an  Italian  minister.  No  president  was 
found  to  rebuke  him.  Indeed,  when  he  demanded 
that  the  law  respecting  aliens  holding  offices  of  state, 
passed  against  Concini  (Marechal  d'Ancre)  in  the 
regency  of  Marie  de  Medici,  should  be  amended  to 
suit  the  present  crisis,  his  words  were  received  with 
such  a  fury  of  applause  that  the  roof  was  very  nearly 
brought  down  about  his  head.  Yet  if  any  single 
member  of  that  noisy  parliament  had  been  asked  what 
national  misfortune  he  dreaded,  what  unpunished 
crime,  what  neglect,  or  what  personal  hardship  he 
debired  to  redress,  he  would  have  found  it  difficult  to 
answer.  It  was  the  fashion  for  every  one  to  be  dis- 
contented and  to  rebel.  If  citizens,  to  call  themselves 
Frondeurs;  if  nobles,  Importants.  To  object  to  every- 
thing; to  harass  the  Government,  refuse  to  pay  taxes 
and  subsidies;  and  to  threaten  to  call  in  Spain  on  the 
most  trivial  pretences.  And  this  because  two  duchesses 
had  quarrelled,  and  certain  hungry  princes  had  lost 
the  sinecures  they  craved  for.     Thus  began  the  civil 


MIDNIGHT   VISITORS.  89 

war  of  the  Fronde,  which  lasted  during  the  whole  of 
the  minority  of  Louis  XIV. 

Mazarin,  when  he  heard  that  the  parliament,  lashed 
on  by  Gondi,  the  Coadjutor,  seriously  proposed  to 
revive  an  obsolete  law,  which  would  connect  his  name 
with  that  of  Concini,  who  had  been  shot  down  like  a 
dog  within  the  precincts  of  the  Louvre,  was  alarmed. 
Not  being  a  soldier  like  Richelieu,  nor  a  patriot  like 
De  Retz,  but  only  a  soft-spoken  Italian,  with  a  slight 
frame, — no  unnecessary  bones  or  muscles, — long  thin 
hands,  and  a  sallow,  womanish  face,  he  applied  to 
the  all-powerful  Conde  for  help.  Conde  effected  a 
compromise  with  Gondi.  So  no  more  was  heard  of 
the  obnoxious  law  at  that  particular  time.  But  the 
parliament  had,  like  a  young  lion,  tasted  blood  in  the 
way  of  power,  liked  it,  and  was  not  to  be  appeased. 
Spite  of  Conde,  seditious  edicts  and  offensive  mea- 
sures, all  suggested  by  the  Coadjutor,  continued  to  be 
passed;  and  Mazarin  shut  himself  up  within  four  walls, 
fearing  for  his  very  life. 

It  is  night  and  very  dark;  only  a  few  ill-trimmed 
lamps  placed  on  pulleys  across  the  street,  and  under 
the  signs  of  the  various  shops,  at  long  distances  from 
each  other,  cast  a  dim  and  flickering  light.  The  un- 
paved  streets  are  muddy  and  full  of  holes;  a  mob  is 
collecting  in  the  darkness  between  the  Louvre,  the 
Church  of  Saint-Germain  I'Auxerrois,  and  the  garden 
of  the  Palais  Royal.  It  thickens  every  moment;  group 
after  group  of  men  and  some  women  emerge  from  the 
gloom.  They  pour  down  from  Saint- Jacques  and  from 
Saint- Antoine,  from  the  quays  and  the  heart  of  the  old 
Roman  city  about  Notre-Dame  and  the  Hotel  Dieu.  They 
gather  from  all  quarters.   Before  an  hour  has  passed,  a 


90  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

dense  multitude,  many  thousands  in  number,  are  packed 
together.  Those  who  stand  under  the  dim  lamps  have 
a  dogged,  resolute  look.  All  eyes  are  directed  towards 
the  Palais  Royal,  separated  by  a  high  wall  from  the 
street.  The  huge  building  rises  up  a  gaunt  mass  before 
them.  Not  a  light  is  to  be  seen  at  any  of  the  windows; 
not  a  sentinel  is  visible,  they  are  withdrawn  within 
the  postern.  Threats  and  oaths  and  ribald  jests  pass 
from  mouth  to  mouth  loudly  and  without  fear;  savage 
cries  and  shouts  of  laughter  ring  along  the  silent 
streets.  Anne  of  Austria,  with  her  two  sons,  is  within 
the  palace.  She  is  quite  aware  what  is  passing  with- 
out. From  an  upper  window,  in  a  darkened  room,  she 
watches  the  citizens  pressing  closer  and  closer  to  the 
gates.  From  amid  the  tumult,  groans  and  imprecations 
are  now  audible;  the  words  reach  her  ears.  "Where  is 
the  little  King?"  cries  one.  "We  will  see  him!"  shrieks 
another.  "You  fool!  he  is  not  here,"  answers  a  third, 
a  smith,  as  black  as  his  forge,  from  the  slums  of  Saint- 
Antoine.  "Why  not?  where  should  he  be  but  at 
home]"  another  voice  asks.  "We  will  force  the  gates, 
and  find  him!"  roars  a  stumpy  man,  with  stentorian 
voice,  shaking  his  fist,  and  struggling  to  the  front. 
"Find  him!  where  will  you  find  him'?  he  is  in  Spain," 
shouts  one  at  his  elbow.  "Curses  on  the  Italian  priest!" 
howl  many  voices  in  horrible  chorus.  This  cry  excites 
the  entire  multitude  to  frenzy;  it  is  taken  up  from 
all  parts,  and  a  volley  of  groans  and  curses  for  a  time 
dro^vns  all  else.  The  crowd  surges  to  and  fro,  like 
breakers  on  a  rocky  shore.  Each  moment  it  approaches 
nearer  the  palace.  A  tall  spare  man,  an  emissary  of 
De  Retz,  who  all  along  has  taken  an  active  part  in 
inciting  the  people,  seizes  on  the  moment  as  propitious, 


MIDNHGHT  \aSITORS.  9 1 

and  calls  out  in  a  loud  voice,  "Death  to  Mazarin!" 
Thousands  re-echo,  "Death  to  Mazarin!"  With  hideous 
gesticulations  they  throw  their  arms  aloft;  caps  fly  into 
the  air;  innumerable  hands  are  clapped  in  savage 
applause.  "Death  to  Mazarin!"  passes  down  the  lines 
of  the  long  streets.  It  is  heard  at  the  crossways,  and 
at  every,  side  alley  and  opening,  dying  away  in  the  far 
distance  into  indistinct  murmurs. 

The  Queen  hears  this  death-cry  standing  at  the 
darkened  window,  and  trembles.  Again  the  maddened 
people  shout,  "Death  to  Mazarin!"  and  again,  "Death!" 
is  echoed  from  afar.  "He  has  spirited  away  our  little 
Louis  into  Spain  to  kill  him!"  "He  has  murdered  the 
Regent!"  yells  out  the  tall,  spare  man,  forcing  his  way 
hither  and  thither.  "Death  to  the  traitor!"  "To  the 
gallows  with  all  foreigners!"  is  the  murderous  response 
of  the  mob. 

Fresh  cries  now  arise,  led  by  the  tall,  spare  man 
with  the  powerful  voice.  "Vive  Gondi,  our  noble 
bishop!  We  will  have  Gondi!  the  Queen  shall  choose 
Gondi,  our  Coadjutor!"  "Come  forth  and  answer  to 
us,  Dame  Anne!"  shrieks  a  shrill  woman's  voice,  very 
near  the  palace,  during  a  momentar}'  lull.  "Come 
forth,  or  we  will  break  in  and  shoot  you!  "WTiere  is 
our  Rot  des  Halles?  Where  is  Beaufort?  Come  out 
to  us,  and  speak  like  an  honest  woman!  Let  Beaufort 
free! — Give  up  j^our  lover,  Mazarin!"  bellows  a  fat 
beldame  from  the  Halles.  "Give  up  the  bon  ami,  and 
we  will  roast  him  at  the  Gr^ve,  and  dance  round  the 
bonfire!"  and  hideous  peals  of  laughter,  yells,  hisses, 
and  imprecations  rise  out  of  the  night  Then,  growing 
impatient,  the  whole  mass,  with  one  accord,  vociferate, 
"We  will  see  the  King!  where  is  the  Kins?     Show  us 


gZ  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

the  little  King,  or  we  will  set  fire  to  the  palace.     The 
King!  the  King!" 

A  tremendous  rush  is  made  from  behind;  those 
in  front  fall  down,  screaming  that  they  are  killed;  others 
trample  upon  their  bodies.  The  gates  are  forced;  the 
foremost  find  themselves  within  the  court.  Pushed  on 
by  the  press  from  behind,  they  now  stand  under  the 
colonnade,  then  beneath  the  portico,  on  past  the 
Queen's  Guards,  who,  commanded  only  to  defend,  not 
to  attack,  stand  back,  drawn  swords  in  their  hands, 
darkly  eyeing  the  rioters.  The  lofty  portals  of  the 
Palais  Royal  are  wide  open;  there  are  lights  within  the 
ample  hall.  Beyond  is  the  grand  staircase,  with  gilded 
banisters.  Finding  no  obstacle,  the  rioters  mount  the 
stairs.  On  the  first  landing  a  woman  stands,  immov- 
able. It  is  the  Queen.  She  is  alone.  She  is  pale, 
but  betrays  no  fear.  The  rude  intruders  draw  back, 
amazed  at  the  vision  of  majesty  and  loveliness  before 
them.  Anne  of  Austria  beckons  to  them  to  advance. 
She  places  her  finger  on  her  lip,  commanding  silence. 
The  rabble,  before  so  noisy,  are  instantly  hushed  as 
by  a  charm.  Signing  to  the  foremost  to  follow  her, 
she  leads  the  way,  through  sumptuous  chambers  and 
vaulted  galleries,  to  the  King's  sleeping-room.  She 
approaches  his  little  bed  of  gilt  lattice-work,  and  gently 
drawing  aside  the  lace  curtains,  displays  Louis  XIV. 
in  the  sound  and  tranquil  sleep  of  childhood.  The 
citizen  Frondeurs  are  satisfied.  The  mothers  bless  his 
baby  face  and  rich  auburn  curls.  The  men  contemplate 
the  Queen  with  awe.  She  stands  beside  the  bed,  sur- 
veying them  with  royal  unconcern.  When  they  have 
stared  their  full  at  the  little  King  and  at  her,  those 
who  have  already  entered  turn  back.     No  others  dare 


MIDNIGHT  VISITORS.  93 

approach.    Ashamed  and  silent,  they  retreat  across  the 

halls  and  through  sculptured  galleries  in  a  very  different 

spirit  to  that  in  which  they  came. 

*  *  *     ,         #  *  * 

Anne  of  Austria  grows  more  and  more  devout.  She 
spends  long  hours  in  her  oratory,  prostrate  before  an 
image  of  the  Magdalene.  She  often  retires  to  the  Val 
de  Grace,  where  she  has  built  a  splendid  church,  as  a 
thank-offering  for  the  birth  of  her  sons.  For  days  to- 
gether she  wears  closely  fitting  serge  dresses,  buttoned 
up  to  the  throat,  like  a  lay  nun.  She  fasts,  and 
chastises  herself  with  a  severity  proper  alike  to  a  sinner 
or  a  saint. 

Yet  there  are  whispers,  and  confidences,  and  anec- 
dotes touching  her  intimacy  with  Cardinal  Mazarin, 
not  quite  in  accordance  with  such  excessive  austerity. 

It  is  a  liaison  too  public  for  intrigue,  uneasy  enough 
for  marriage! 

The  constant  reproaches  she  addresses  to  her  ladies 
in  waiting  for  their  lack  of  devotion,  tends  rather  to 
enrage  than  to  edify  these  pretty  sinners.  Mademoiselle 
de  Pons,  with  a  smile  and  a  toss  of  the  head,  draws 
Mademoiselle  de  la  Mothe  into  a  corner,  and  repeats 
some  hard  words  the  Queen  has  spoken  to  her.  Made- 
moiselle de  Hautefort,  of  a  quick,  impulsive  tempera- 
ment, is  continually  either  in  a  passion  or  in  tears. 
The  Duchesse  de  Chevreuse  is  unusually  grave,  and 
more  silent  than  she  ever  was  before.  The  Duchesse 
de  Noailles,  lady  of  the  bed-chamber,  her  attendance 
at  the  Palais  Royal  over,  orders  her  coach  and,  in 
company  with  the  Duchesse  de  Sennecy,  returns  home 
to  her  hotel  in  the  Place  Royale,  in  a  very  bad  humour. 
Here  a  party  of  ladies,  "her  nineteen  bosom  friends," 


94-  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

are  awaiting  her  arrival.  They  are  all  eager  for  gossip, 
and  all  pledged  to  a  vow  of  eternal  secrecy,  a  promise 
they  will  keep  as  long  as  the  retailer  of  the  scandal  is 
speaking.  Coffee  has  been  handed  round  in  delicate 
cups  of  Oriental  porcelain.  Bonbons  and  cakes,  served 
on  trays  of  gold  repoussi,  have  been  discussed;  the 
ladies  lean  back  in  their  chairs,  to  listen  with  greater 
ease.  Then  the  Duchesse  de  Noailles,  addressing  her- 
self particularly  to  Madame  de  Sennecy  and  a  certain 
Comtesse  de  Lude,  remarkable  for  a  thin  pinched  face 
and  a  very  red  nose,  begins. 


CHAPTER   XL 

The  two  Duchesses. 

"Mesdames,  you  have  asked  me  to  give  you  some 
details  of  what  is  passing  in  the  palace.  I  will  do  so; 
but  do  not  imagine,  for  Heaven's  sake,  that  I  wish  to 
spread  evil  reports  or  to  act  la  scandaleuse.  Far  from 
it;  as  long  as  I  remain  in  the  Queen's  service,  what- 
ever her  conduct  may  be  towards  me,  I  shall  bear  it. 
I  shall  not  dream  of  revenge." 

"Oh,  dear  no,  not  in  the  least,"  the  ladies  murmur j 
"nothing  can  be  more  proper." 

"But,  really,  when  I  see  such  an  affectation  of  devo- 
tion, that  serge  gown,  and  no  ornaments  except  on 
state  receptions;  such  severity,  too,  towards  every  one 
who  dresses  like  the  rest  of  the  world — she  told  me 
the  other  day  my  dress  was  too  decollete — can  you 
conceive? — it  is  more  than  human  nature  can  bear.  It 
sets  me  remembering  certain  stories  well  known  to 
everybody  within  the  palace,  when  her  Majesty  wore 


THE  TWO  DUCHESSES.  95 

low  dresses  too,  and  was  not  quite  such  a  devote  as  she 
pretends  to  be  now." 

The  assembled  ladies  assent  silently.  The  Duchesse 
de  Noailles,  who  is  excited  and  has  spoken  quickly, 
having  stopped  to  take  breath,  the  Duchesse  de  Sen- 
necy  seizes  the  moment  to  break  in — 

"You  may  do  as  you  please,  dear  Duchess,  but  for 
my  part  I  am  indignant  with  her  Majesty.  She  has 
no  gratitude.  I  might  have  ruined  her  years  ago, 
when  my  cousin,  Louise  de  Lafayette,  could  turn  the 
late  King  Louis  XIIL  round  her  finger;  one  word 
from  her,  and  the  Queen  would  have  been  exiled!  I 
am  indignant,  I  repeat — I  am  actually  not  allowed  to 
choose  my  own  confessor!  Her  Majesty  insists  that  I 
should  select  a  Jesuit — a  protege  of  Mazarin — a  man, 
as  I  believe,  not  to  be  trusted.  And  the  reason  she 
gives  is,  'that  it  is  for  the  good  of  my  soul!'  I  can 
take  care  of  my  own  soul,  I  suppose.  I  always  con- 
fess twice  a  year.  What  is  it  to  her  Majesty  if  I  do 
not  confess  at  alH" 

All  the  ladies  murmur  acquiescence,  and  the  red- 
nosed  Countess,  Madame  de  Lude,  says,  "It  is  an  im- 
pertinence." 

"Every  one  must  see,"  continues  Madame  de  Sen- 
n6cy,  speaking  rapidly,  for  she  observes  that  Madame 
de  Noailles  is  eager  to  proceed,  "the  power  Mazarin 
exercises  over  her.  In  her  youth  Richelieu  loved  her: 
now  it  is  Mazarin.  She  is  bom  to  ensnare  the  Sacred 
College — perhaps  his  Holiness  himself,  if  he  crossed 
the  Apennines " 

"Oh,  Duchess,"  exclaim  several  voices,  "how 
shocking!"  and  some  ladies  hold  up  their  fans  before 
their  faces. 


96  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

"Gently,  madame,"  says  Madame  de  Noailles,  in- 
terrupting; "I  detest  calumny.  I  only  speak  of  the 
past — that  cannot  hurt  her  Majesty." 

"I  speak  of  the  present,"  cries  Madame  de  Sen- 
necy  with  irritation.  "There  is  quite  enough  to  talk 
about  in  the  present,  without  recalling  the  past.  The 
partiality  of  the  Queen  positively  injures  Mazarin.  I 
believe  that  this  is  the  principal  reason  of  the  great 
animosity  against  him  among  the  citizens  of  Paris, 
who  call  themselves  Frotideurs." 

"But,  my  tr^s  chhre"  answers  Madame  de  Noailles, 
— the  Mrs.  Candour  of  that  day,  who,  although  quite 
as  spiteful  as  her  friend,  had  more  discretion,  and 
dreaded  the  mischief  that  might  arise  by-and-by  if  the 
tongues  of  all  the  assembled  ladies  were  let  loose, — 
"but,  my  irh  ch^re,  it  is  believed  that  her  Majesty  is 
privately  married  to  Mazarin;  the  Cardinal  has  never 
taken  priest's  orders;  the  Queen  is  a  widow.  Madame 
de  Motteville  is  of  this  opinion;  enfin,  I  believe  it  my- 
self: else  that  sneaking,  honey-mouthed  Italian,  whom 
we  all  knew  as  'Signer  Giulio,'  secretary  to  the  great 
Richelieu,  would  never  dare  to  be  so  unkind  to  the 
King  and  the  little  Duke,  or  so  arrogant  to  her  Ma- 
jesty." 

''Ciel!  how  contemptuously  Mazarin  answers  the 
Queen  sometimes— how  meekly  she  bears  it!"  exclaims 
Madame  de  Sennecy.  "Beringhen  tells  me  that  he 
will  not  allow  the  King  and  his  brother  proper 
body-linen,  and  that  the  sheets  of  their  beds  are  in 
holes." 

"Ah,  Dieu!  what  a  shame,"  cry  the  ladies — "the 
King  of  France!" — and  the  red-nosed  Countess  de- 
clares, "That  the  parliament  ought  to  know  it." 


THE  TWO  DUCHESSES.  97 

This  idea  alarms  Madame  de  Noailles  extremely. 
She  does  not  want  to  lose  her  place  at  Court,  yet  it 
is  sweet  to  her  to  hear  the  Queen  abused,  who  had  so 
sternly  forbade  her  to  appear  again  before  her  in  such 
low  dresses. 

"Well,  Mazarin  is  bad  enough,  mesdames,"  cries 
Madame  de  Sennecy  (not  to  be  quelled  by  the  frowns 
and  signs  of  her  senior);  "he  is  bad  enough — the 
blood-sucker — as  that  dear  handsome  Due  de  Beau- 
fort calls  him;  but,  for  my  part,  I  can  tolerate  him 
much  better  than  those  nieces  of  his,  who  come  up 
one  by  one  from  Rome — Mancini  and  Martinozzi,  or 
whatever  he  calls  them — with  their  bold  Italian  looks 
and  big  eyes,  devouring  every  man  they  see.  How 
intolerable  they  are!" 

"They  are  quite  improper,"  puts  in  the  red-nosed 
Countess,  "and  very  ugly." 

Some  of  the  ladies  say  they  do  not  think  so. 
Others  declare  that  they  are  sallow,  bony,  and  ill- 
shaped.  Madame  de  Sennecy  ends  the  discussion  by 
declaring  that  one  is  deformed,  and  that  the  other 
limps;  a  statement  utterly  untrue,  but  which  is  re- 
ceived as  gospel.  Madame  de  Noailles  declares  that 
she  is  sure  the  Queen  would  never  allow  such  crea- 
tures to  be  about  the  Court  if  she  could  help  it.  It 
is  most  dangerous  for  his  Sacred  Majesty  to  be  educated 
with  them.  He  might  become  attached  to  Olympia 
for  instance,  the  eldest  unmarried  one. 

A  shudder  passes  through  the  assembled  ladies  at 
such  a  monstrous  supposition.  The  red-nosed  Countess 
opines  that  the  princes  of  the  blood  should  have  such 
hussies  imprisoned  in  the  Bastille,  and  fed  on  bread 
and  water. 

Old  Court  Life  in  France.    11.  7 


gS  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

"Ah,  ladies,"  cries  Madame  de  Noailles,  in  her 
shrill  voice,  "how  little  you  know  of  the  intrigues  of 
a  Court!  Mazarin  fully  intends  to  marry  his  saucy 
niece,  Olympia,  to  the  King.  The  Queen  cannot  help 
it;  she  is  in  his  power;  she  is  his  wife." 

"It  is  to  be  hoped  so,"  mutters  Madame  de  Sen- 
necy;  and  the  red-nosed  Countess  shakes  her  head, 
and  by  this  significant  gesture  endorses  her  doubt  of 
the  fact. 

"I  wish  you  would  listen  to  me,"  says  theDuchesse 
de  Noailles  peevishly.  "I  was  alluding  to  some  curious 
old  stories  connected  with  the  Queen;  but,  perhaps, 
ladies  you  know  them  already,"  and  she  looks  inquir- 
ingly around. 

"Very  imperfectly,"  lisps  a  thin  demoiselle  of  un- 
certain age,  who  had  been  disappointed  of  the  situa- 
tion of  maid  of  honour.  And  the  red-nosed  Countess 
settles  herself  in  her  chair,  drinks  another  cup  of 
coffee,  and  begs  Madame  de  Noailles  to  proceed. 
Madame  de  Sennecy  also  joins  in  the  same  request. 
Another  lady,  a  hanger-on  of  the  Duchesse  de  Noailles, 
who  had  not  yet  spoken,  says,  "It  is  well  known  that 
Madame  la  Duchesse  relates  everything  in  such  a 
piquante  manner."  Thus  encouraged,  the  Duchess 
begins: — 

"I  desire  to  speak  of  the  past.  The  past  cannot 
injure  her  Majesty.  I  am  without  prejudice,  and  in- 
capable of  malice."  The  Duchesse  de  Sennecy  laughs 
behind  her  fan.  "I  have  listened  to  all  Madame  de 
Sennecy  has  said  with  deep  concern;"  and  she  crosses 
her  hands,  and  looks  up  at  the  ceiling  with  mock 
solemnity.  "I  am  lady  of  the  bed-chamber  to  the 
Queen — a  position   involving    certain   duties,    certain^ 


THE  TWO   DUCHESSES.  99 

reserves.  God  forbid  I  should  forget  them!"  Madame 
de  Senn^cy  stares  at  her  with  amazement,  wondering 
what  is  coming  next.  "Her  Majest}'  was  so  cautious 
formerly — so  cautious,  I  say — nothing  more — it  is  not 
likely  she  should  commit  herself  now.  I  do  not  there- 
fore agree  with  Madame  de  Sennecy  in  her  opinion 
that  she  is  privately  married  to  Mazarin." 

"Then  she  ought  to  be,"  the  red-nosed  Countess 
says  sententiously. 

"Remember  she  had  Madame  de  Chevreuse  to 
help  her  formerly,"  thrusts  in  Madame  de  Sennecy 
sharply. 

"With  your  permission,  ladies,  I  will  begin  my 
narrative.  But  if  you  interrupt  me,  I  cannot  do  so," 
and  Madame  de  Noailles  draws  herself  up  with  an 
offended  air.  "A  thousand  pardons!"  every  on»  ex- 
claims. Not  a  sound  is  heard.  The  Duchess,  some- 
what pacified,  surveys  her  audience.  "I  presume, 
ladies,  we  all  adore  the  miracle  wrought  in  the  person 
of  his  present  Majesty  for  the  continuance  of  the 
royal  line;  I  say,  in  the  person  of  our  present  Ma- 
jesty, Louis  XIV.,  a  miracle  which  was  brought  about 
by  the  intercession  of  that  saint,  your  cousin,  Made- 
moiselle Louise  de  Lafayette;"  she  turns  towards  Ma- 
dame de  Sennecy,  who  bows.  "It  was  Mademoiselle 
de  Lafayette  who  persuaded  the  King  to  visit  the 
Queen  at  the  Louvre.  A  miracle — eh,  my  dear 
friends?"  and  a  malicious  smile  plays  about  her 
mouth,  and  she  casts  up  her  eyes  and  pauses;  "a 
wonderful  miracle  after  twenty-two  years  of  sterility, 
and  the  King,  too,  almost  in  his  grave!" 

"Quite  so,"  replies  the  Duchesse  de  Sennecy;  "in- 
credible!"    All    the    ladies    laugh.      The    red-nosed 

7* 


too  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

Countess  declares  she  never  had  believed  it;  which 
was  exactly  what  Madame  de  Noailles  intended,  though 
she  would  not  have  said  so  for  the  world! 

"Well,  after  this  truly  miraculous  event,  and  when 
their  Majesties  were  as  much  alienated  as  ever — for 
the  Queen  never  forgave  the  insult  the  King  put  upon 
her  at  the  Val  de  Grace,  in  summoning  her  before 
the  council,  and  making  the  Chancellor  search  her 
papers — their  Majesties  being,  I  repeat,  as  much 
alienated  as  ever,  the  Beau  Buckingham  came  to 
Court*  But,  mesdames,  this  is  a  long  story;  you  will 
be  fatigued." 

"No,  no — not  in  the  least,"  answer  all  the  ladies 
speaking  at  once.  "Go  on  Duchess,  pray  go  on;  tell 
us  about  the  Beau  Buckingham.  Did  he  not  let 
pearls  fall  from  his  dress,  and  when  they  were  picked 
up  refuse  to  take  them  back?"  asks  the  Duchesse  de 
Sennecy. 

"Exactly,"  replies  Madame  de  Noailles.  "Bucking- 
ham was  a  grand  seigneur." 

"Pray  go  on,  madame." 

"Well,  mesdames,  an  embassy  came  from  Charles  I. 
of  England — poor  man,  he  had  his  head  cut  off  after- 
wards— how  perfidious  those  English  are! — to  ask  the 
hand  of  our  Princess  Henrietta  Maria — daughter  of 
Marie  de  Medici  and  Henry  IV. — in  marriage.  The 
Beau  Buckingham  was  the  ambassador  chosen,  and 
such  a  one  was  never  seen  before;  so  magnificent,  so 
handsome,  so  liberal.  His  dress,  his  manners,  his 
cortege,  all  were  perfect.  He  seemed  like  a  prince 
out  of  a  fairy  tale,  just  arrived  from  the  moon,   who 

*  George  Villiers ,  Duke  of  Buckingham ,  favourite  of  James  I. ,  and  of 
his  son,  Charles  I.,  assassinated  by  Felcon ,  162S. 


THE  TWO  DUCHESSES.  101 

spoke  nothing  but  diamonds  and  rubies,  and  at  whose 
feet  flowers  sprung  up.  All  the  ladies  lost  their  hearts 
to  him,  the  husbands  shut  themselves  up  in  a  rage, 
and  the  lovers  hanged  themselves  in  sheer  despair! 

"He  soon  saw  how  matters  stood  with  the  poor 
Queen.  She  dared  scarcely  open  her  mouth,  and 
looked  so  terrified  in  the  presence  of  her  husband  and 
Cardinal  Richelieu,  that  what  with  her  beauty  and  her 
evident  sufferings,  she  might  have  touched  a  heart  of 
stone.  Now  the  Beau  Buckingham  was  far  from  hav- 
ing a  heart  of  stone  where  the  ladies  were  concerned. 
So,  h  voild.  amoureux,  the  Beau  Buckingham!  Indeed, 
from  the  first  moment  he  came  to  Court  he  saw  only 
the  Queen.  To  her  all  his  looks,  all  his  attentions, 
were  directed, — and  such  looks,  such  devotion!  Bon 
Dieu,  how  well  I  remember  him  in  a  justaucorps  of 
white  satin  embroidered  with  gold,  leaning  against  a 
pillar  gazing  at  the  Queen,  who  evidently  was  aware 
of  his  glances.  His  long  beautiful  hair  streamed  over 
his  shoulders  in  rich  chestnut  curls,  his  noble  face 
beamed  with  expression;  in  one  hand  was  a  cavalier's 
hat  covered  with  snowy  plumes,  the  other  was  placed 
on  his  heart. 

"The  Queen  was  sensible  to  his  homage.  Poor 
Queen!  she  really  was  very  ill  used;  it  must  have 
been  delightful  to  ^e  loved  at  last.  Indeed,  it  was 
quite  evident  to  me,  as  well  as  to  the  whole  Court, 
that  Buckingham's  feeling  was  returned.  Sometimes 
she  gazed  also,  nor  did  her  looks  want  fire.  But, 
mesdames,  I  hope  you  do  not  misunderstand  me," 
and  the  Duchess  glanced  deprecatingly  round  the 
circle;  "I  assure  you  I  am  not  censorious;  I  am  only 
relating  facts,  undoubted  facts,  which  happened  long 


I02  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

ago — in  order  to  convince  you  all  that  Madame  de 
Sennecy  is  mistaken,  and  that  even  when  young  her 
Majesty  was  eminently  cautious.  She  is  so  still.  Be- 
lieve me,  she  is  not  married  to  Mazarin." 

"Pray  proceed,  dear  Duchess,"  cries  Madame  de 
Sennecy;  "never  mind  Mazarin;  your  story  is  most 
interesting." 

"We  want  to  hear  the  denouement"  say  all  the 
ladies,  and  the  red-nosed  Countess  opines  that  "it  is 
easy  to  understand  what  that  will  be." 

"Her  Majesty  used  to  delight  in  dancing.  Now 
she  often  danced  with  Buckingham.  This  was  only 
etiquette,  as  he  represented  Charles  I.  of  England  at 
the  Court  of  France.  Her  Majesty  was  always  very 
cautious,  I  assure  you,  very  cautious.  Buckingham 
did  all  he  could  to  retard  the  negotiation  of  marriage, 
and  Richelieu,  who  knew  the  Queen  well  and  had 
watched  her  closely,  having,  I  suppose,  discovered  her 
secret,  did  everything,  on  the  contrary,  to  hasten  his 
departure. 

"There  was  a  story  about  some  diamonds — an 
aigrette,  I  believe.  I  never  quite  understood  it,  ladies, 
but  of  course  Madame  de  Chevreuse  did — some  dia- 
monds that  the  King  had  given  to  the  Queen,  and 
which  she  gave  to  Buckingham,  who  was  imprudent 
enough  to  wear  them  in  public.  .  This  nearly  caused 
her  ruin,  for  she  was  surrounded  by  enemies  and 
spies.  The  Cardinal  got  wind  of  it,  and  informed 
the  King,  and  his  Majesty  called  on  the  Queen  to 
wear  these  diamonds  on  a  certain  day,  and  but  for 
the  exertions  of  certain  musketeers  of  the  Queen's 
Guard,  by  name  Athos,  Porthos,  and  Aramis,  who 
journeyed  night  and  day  to  fetch  them  from  England 


THE  TWO  DUCHESSES.  lOj 

— at  least,  so  goes  the  tale — Anne  of  Austria  would 
have  been  imprisoned,  or  perhaps  beheaded,  d  la  ruode 
Anglaise,  particularly  as  the  Cardinal  preferred  that 
mode  of  execution.  You  remember  that  charming 
Monsieur  le  Grand,  who  had  his  head  cut  off?"  says 
Madame  de  Noailles,  appealing  to  the  red-nosed 
Countess. 

"Ah!  I  should  think  so,  the  husband  of  Marion 
de  rOrme,  the  Marquis  d€  Cinq-Mars,  a  sad  profligate 
and  coxcomb,  who  richly  deserved  his  fate." 

"At  last  Buckingham  was  to  go,"  continues  the 
Duchess;  "he  could  spin  out  his  time  no  longer. 
All  the  Court  accompanied  him  to  Amiens.  Madame 
de  Chevreuse  was  with  the  Queen,  who  did  all  she 
could  to  conceal  her  grief,  for,  believe  me,  she  is  very 
cautious.  Ah!  her  Majesty  knows  what  it  is  to  be  in 
love  though,  spite  of  caution  and  serge  gown,  and  her 
petit  air  divot.  She  ought  to  be  more  charitable,  and 
let  her  ladies  dress  as  they  please,  eh,  mesdames?" 
and  the  Duchess  looks  round,  and  sees  every  eye 
fixed  eagerly  upon  her;  the  red-nosed  Countess,  with  a 
visible  sneer  on  her  face,  and  Madame  de  Sennecy,  full 
of  gratified  spite,  smiling  sarcastically.  "Madame  de 
Chevreuse  did,  ladies,  hint  to  me,  that  the  long  even- 
ing spent  at  Amiens  was  not  passed — hum! — well  not 
passed  all  in  public.  For  a  single  moment  her  Ma- 
jesty did,  extraordinary  to  say,  forget  her  usual 
caution,  and  you  know,  ladies,  a  moment  may  do 
much." 

All  the  ladies  laugh  behind  their  fans,  and  the 
red-nosed  Countess  gives  it  as  her  decided  opinion 
"that  the  Queen  is  not  married  to  Mazarin,"  for 
which  the  Duchesse  de  Sennecy  warmly  applauds  her 


I04  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

excellent  judgment,  and  adds,  "she  had  always  said 


so." 


"There  was  a  fete  at  Amiens,"  continues  Madame 
de  Noailles,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  malice,  "a  shady 
garden,  and  a  moon  not  too  bright — a  lover's  moon, 
we  will  say — revealing  much,  not  all.  It  is  certain 
that  by  the  management  of  Madame  de  Chevreuse, 
the  Queen  and  Buckingham  had  a  charming  little 
apart  during  the  fete,  in  a  grove  at  the  end  of  the 
gardens,  near  the  city  walls.  There  was  a  cry,  and 
Putange,  who  was  in  waiting,  but — instructed  by  Ma- 
dame de  Chevreuse — standing  apart,  though  within 
call,  hearing  the  Queen's  voice,  rushed  forward  and 
found  her  nearly  fainting,  and  Buckingham  on  his 
knees  before  her." 

^^ Bagatelle!"  breaks  in  Madame  de  Sennecy, 
"what  a  romantic  story!" 

"Certain  it  is,  Buckingham  sailed  from  France 
that  same  night.  Madame  de  Chevreuse  had  too 
much  on  her  own  hands  {en  fait  (Tamour)  to  know 
more  than  what  Putange  told  her.  Buckingham 
sailed,  the  Queen  returned  ill  to  Paris,  and  was 
nursed  by  the  Duchesse  de  Chevreuse.  Some  say 
that  Buckingham  returned  again  privately.  At  all 
events,  the  Queen,  as  long  as  Richelieu  and  Louis 
XTTT.  lived,  led  a  miserable  life.  Mesdames,"  and  the 
Duchesse  de  Noailles  gives  a  triumphant  glance  round 
the  circle,  "I  have  proved,  I  think,  that  her  Majesty 
is  seldom  incautious,"  and  the  Duchess  smiles  a  bitter 
smile,  and  again  looks  round  for  approval  and  ac- 
quiescence. 

Just  as  the  ladies  had  all  risen  with  great  anima- 
tion to  give  their  various  opinions  and  to  thank  the 


"put  not  thy  trust  in  princes."  105 

Duchess,  the  rattle  of  a  heavy  coach  is  heard  below. 
In  a  few  moments  the  door  is  flung  open,  and  Ma- 
dame la  Duchesse  de  Chevreuse  is  announced. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"Put  not  thy  Trust  in  Princes." 

Madame  de  Noailles  rises  to  receive  the  Du- 
chesse de  Chevreuse,  and  kisses  her  with  effusion,  but 
is  startled  at  the  sight  of  her  blanched  face  and  de- 
spondent air.  She  is  plainly  dressed  in  a  dark  travel- 
ling costume,  bows  to  the  Duchesse  de  Sennecy  and 
to  the  other  ladies,  and  sinks  down  on  a  couch. 

"Good  heavens!  what  is  the  matter?"  asks  Ma- 
dame de  Noailles,  with  intense  curiosity,  taking  her 
by  the  hand;  "you  are  strangely  altered  since  I  left 
the  palace  a  few  hours  since." 

The  Duchesse  de  Chevreuse  glances  at  the  circle 
of  ladies,  the  "nineteen  bosom  friends,"  whose  eyes 
are  riveted  upon  her  as  if  to  read  her  thoughts.  The 
red-nosed  Countess  in  particular  has  advanced  close 
to  her,  in  order  not  to  lose  a  syllable;  her  mouth  is 
wide  open,  to  assist  her  ears  in  listening. 

"I  have  come  on  private  business  of  some  im- 
portance to  myself,  dear  Duchess,"  says  Madame  de 
Chevreuse,  speaking  under  her  breath.  "I  did  not 
know  that  you  received  this  evening.  It  is  unfortu- 
nate." 

Madame  de  Noailles,  who  is  dying  to  hear  what 
she  has  to  say,  looks  at  her  guests  with  an  unmis- 
takable expression.  The  Duchesse  de  Sennecy  rises 
at  once. 

"Allow  me  to  wish  you  good   evening,  my   dear 


I06  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

friend  "  says  she,  and  departs.  The  red-nosed  Countess 
is  forced  to  rise  and  follow  her  example,  how  much 
against  her  will  it  is  plain  to  see;  the  other  ladies 
retire  with  her. 

Madame  de  Noailles  and  the  Duchesse  de  Che- 
vreuse  are  now  alone.  Madame  de  Chevreuse  heaves 
a  profound  sigh;  a  tear  rolls  dpwn  her  cheek,  out  of 
which  the  dimples  are  faded.  Her  thin  lips  are 
white,  and  she  shivers. 

"Tell  me.  Duchess,  what  misfortune  has  hap- 
pened 1"  asks  Madame  de  Noailles,  taking  her  hand. 

"A  misfortune,  yes,  for  I  love  her — I  love  her 
dearly.  I  have  devoted  my  life  to  serve  her;  without 
me  she  would  not  now  be  Regent  of  France." 

Madame  de  Chevreuse  speaks  in  broken  sentences; 
her  looks  are  wild;  her  mind  seems  to  wander;  her 
large  prominent  eyes  are  fixed  on  vacancy. 

"Duchess,  for  God's  sake  rouse  yourself.  What 
has  happened?  Is  it  the  Queeni"  And  Madame  de 
Noailles  wrings  the  hand  of  her  friend  to  rouse  her. 

"Yes — it  is  the  Queen,"  replies  Madame  de 
Chevreuse  slowly,  becoming  more  conscious,  and 
gazing  at  her.  "Her  Majesty  has  dismissed  me.  I 
am  on  my  way  to  Tours — exiled." 

"Gracious  heaven!"  exclaims  Madame  de  Noailles j 
"what  ingratitude!" 

"Duchess,  I  thank  you  for  your  sympathy;  but,  I 
beseech  you,  say  not  one  word  against  my  beloved 
mistress.  When  I  entered  this  room  it  seemed  to  me 
that  sorrow  had  made  me  mad — my  brain  was  on 
fire.  I  am  better  now,  and  calmer.  My  royal  mis- 
tress may  live  to  want  me,  as  she  has  so  often  done 
before.     She  may  recall  me.     At   Court— in   exile — 


"PUT  NOT  THY  TRUST   IN   PRINCES."  IO7 

absent  or  present,  I  am  her  humble  and  devoted 
slave." 

"She  will  want  no  one  as  long  as  she  has 
Mazarin,"  says  the  Duchess,  with  a  sneer. 

"So  I  fear,"  returns  Madame  de  Chevreuse. 

"But  what  has  happened  since  I  left  the  palace?" 
again  eagerly  asks  Madame  de  Noailles. 

"I  will  tell  you.  I  have  never  been  the  same  to 
her  Majesty  since  the  old  days,  when  I  was  banished, 
after  the  Val  de  Grice,  by  Richelieu>  She  received 
me  well  after  I  returned,  when  she  was  Regent;  but 
I  have  loved  her  too  devotedly  not  to  feel  the  differ- 
ence. While,  on  my  side,  the  long  years  that  I  had 
spent  flying  over  Europe  to  escape  the  machinations 
of  the  Cardinal,  had  only  made  me  more  devoted  to 
her,  the  Queen — who  formerly  trusted  me  with  every 
thought — had  grown  serious,  reserved,  and  ascetic. 
I  am  pious  enough  myself," — and  a  gleam  of  fun 
passes  into  her  weary  face,  and  causes  her  eyes  to 
sparkle, — "I  never  eat  meat  in  Lent,  and  always  con- 
fess at  Easter.  But  her  Majesty  has  become  a  bigot. 
She  was  always  reproving  me,  too,  for  those  little 
agaceries  (vanities  she  called  them)  which  no  one  lives 
without.  'My  age,'  she  said,  'forbade  them.'  Now  I 
only  own  to  forty,  Duchess;  that  is  not  an  age  to  go 
into  a  convent,  and  to  think  of  nothing  but  my  soul. 
Why  should  I  not  enjoy  myself  a  little  yet?"  And  her 
large  eyes  find  their  way  to  a  mirror  opposite,  and 
dwell  on  it  with  evident  complacency. 

"But  the  Queen  reproaches  everybody,"  returns 
Madame  de  Noailles.  "Conceive — she  reprimanded 
me  for  wearing  a  dress  too  dicoUete" 

Madame  de  Chevreuse  smiles  faintly;  for  it  was 


I08  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

indeed  true  that  the  older  Madame  de  Noailles  grew, 
the  lower  her  dresses  were  cut. 

"People  who  hated  me  made  the  Queen  believe," 
continues  Madame  de  Chevreuse,  "that  I  wanted  to 
govern  her — to  use  her  patronage.  If  it  were  so,  I 
should  have  done  it  long  ago.  It  was  the  Princesse  de 
Conde  who  told  the  Queen  so;  she  hates  me.  When 
I  assured  her  Majesty  that  it  was  false,  she  seemed 
to  believe  me.  Then  came  the  affair  of  Madame  de 
Montbazon  and'  the  letters  found  in  her  room,  one  of 
which  she  said  was  written  by  the  Duchesse  de  Longue- 
ville,  the  daughter  of  my  enemy,  the  Princesse  de 
Conde.  How  could  I  help  what  my  stepmother  said? 
— she  is  a  spoilt  beauty,  and  very  injudicious — but 
her  Majesty  blamed  me,  nevertheless.  I  implored  her 
to  forgive  my  stepmother;  and  for  this  purpose,  I 
offered  her  Majesty  yesterday  a  collation  in  those 
fine  gardens,  kept  by  Regnard,  beyond  the  chestnut 
avenue  of  the  Tuileries — you  know  these  gardens. 
Duchess?" 

"I  do,"  replies  Madame  de  Noailles. 

"Her  Majesty  had  often  wished  to  go  there.  I 
asked  my  stepmother  to  be  present,  in  the  full  belief 
that  the  Queen's  kind  heart  would  relent  when  she 
saw  her,  and  that  she  would  restore  her  to  favour.  Alas ! 
I  was  mistaken.  I  do  not  know  the  Queen  now,  she 
is  so  changed.  She  came  accompanied  by  the  Prin- 
cesse de  Conde.  No  sooner  had  she  set  eyes  on 
Madame  de  Montbazon,  who  was  conversing  with  me, 
than  the  Queen  gave  me  a  furious  glance,  called  the 
Princesse  de  Conde  to  her  side,  and  bid  her  command 
the   attendance   of  her  pages;  then,  without  another 


"put  not  thy  trust  in  princes."  1 09 

word,  her  Majesty  turned  her  back  on  me,  entered  her 
coach,  and  departed." 

"Heavens!"  exclaims  Madame  de  Noailles,  turning 
up  her  eyes,  "no  one  is  safe,  unless  they  are  allies  of 
Cardinal  Mazarin." 

"An  hour  afterwards,"  —  and  the  Duchesse  de 
Chevreuse  raises  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes, — "I 
received  an  order  to  quit  Paris  for  Tours.  Alas,  I  have 
not  deserved  it!" 

"It  is  the  Cardinal,"  cries  Madame  de  Noailles. 
"He  will  drive  out  all  her  old  friends;  they  are  incon- 
venient  " 

While  she  speaks  the  door  opens,  and  Mademoiselle 
de  Hautefort  enters  the  saloon,  unannounced.  She  is 
bathed  in  tears:  her  eyes  are  swollen  with  excessive 
weeping;  she  cannot  repress  her  sobs.  The  two 
ladies  rise,  and  endeavour  to  soothe  her;  but  her  pas- 
sionate sorrow  is  not  to  be  appeased.  For  some  time 
she  cannot  utter  a  word.  Madame  de  Chevreuse  hung 
over  her  affectionately. 

"Dearest  friend,"  she  says,  kissing  her,  "I  guess 
what  has  happened.  You  are  exiled;  so  am  I.  Come 
with  me  into  Touraine;  let  us  comfort  each  other 
until  better  days." 

"Oh,  speak  not  to  me  of  better  days,"  sobs  Made- 
moiselle de  Hautefort.  "They  can  never  come  to  me. 
My  dear,  dear  mistress,  you  have  broken  my  heart!" 
and  she  bursts  into  a  fresh  passion  of  tears. 

The  Duchesse  de  Chevreuse  sits  down  beside  her 
and  chafes  her  hand.  Madame  de  Noailles,  who  sees 
in  the  departure  of  these  two  ladies  a  chance  of  greater 
promotion  and  increased  confidence  for  herself,  forms 


no  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   FRANCE. 

her  countenance  into  an  expression  of  concern  she 
does  not  in  the  least  feel. 

"My  dear  friend,"  says  Madame  de  Chevreuse, 
endeavouring  to  calm  the  agony  of  grief  which  shook 
the  whole  frame  of  Mademoiselle  de  Hautefort,  "let 
us  share  our  sorrow." 

"  The  Queen  must  think  herself  rich  in  friends,  to 
cast  away  such  devoted  servants,"  observes  Madame 
de  Noailles  sententiously,  contemplating  the  group 
through  her  eye-glass.  "Do  speak,  Mademoiselle  de 
Hautefort." 

She  had  gradually  become  more  collected,  and  her 
violent  sobs  had  ceased;  but  now  and  then  her  bosom 
heaves,  as  bitter  recollections  of  the  past  float  through 
her  mind. 

"Speak,"  whispers  the  Duchesse  de  Chevreuse  in 
her  softest  voice,  "it  will  relieve  you.  In  what  man- 
ner did  our  royal  mistress  dismiss  you?" 

"Late  last  evening,"  answers  Mademoiselle  de 
Hautefort,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  stopping  every  now 
and  then  to  sigh,  and  to  wipe  the  tears  that  streamed 
from  her  eyes,  "Mademoiselle  de  Motteville  and  I 
were  assisting  the  Queen  at  her  coucher.  As  is  our 
habit  we  were  conversing  familiarly  with  her.  The 
Queen  was  undressed,  and  just  preparing  to  get  into 
bed.  She  had  only  her  last  prayer  to  say,  for  she 
lives  on  prayer,  like  a  true  saint."  Madame  de  Noailles 
draws  down  the  corners  of  her  mouth  and  scarcely 
endeavours  to  hide  her  derision.  Even  the  Duchesse 
de  Chevreuse  smiles.  "Mademoiselle  de  Motteville 
and  her  sister  the  Comtesse  de  Jars,  and  Mademoiselle 
de  Beaumont,  had  just  left  the  ante-room  from  whence 
they  had   been  speaking  with  the  Queen.     I  was  on 


"PUT  NOT  THY  TRUST  IN  PRINCES."  I  1  I 

my  knees  before  her  taking  off  her  shoes.  All  at  once 
I  remembered  that  a  gentleman,  who  attends  upon  the 
ladies  in  waiting,  called  Nedo,  a  Breton — you  knew 
him,  Duchess?"  Madame  de  Chevreuse  answered  that 
she  did,  "Had  asked  me  to  obtain  a  better  appoint- 
ment for  him."  Mademoiselle  de  Hautefort  pauses. 
The  scene  seems  to  rise  before  her,  and  a  fresh  fit  of 
violent  sobbing  prevents  her  from  speaking.  "Alas!" 
she  exclaims  at  last,  "why — why  did  I  presume  to 
trouble  her  Majesty  for  such  a  trifle?  A  stranger  to 
me  too!  I  have  lost  what  was  dearer  to  me  than  life 
— herself.  She  refused  me,"  continues  Mademoiselle 
de  Hautefort,  "I  was  nettled.  Oh,  Duchess,"  says  she, 
turning  to  Madame  de  Chevreuse,  "how  often  have 
you  borne  my  hasty  temper!  How  I  reproach  myself 
now!     That  temper  has  ruined — undone  me!" 

"What  would  Monsieur  le  Marechal  de  Schom- 
berg  say  if  he  heard  youl"  asks  Madame  de  Noailles 
slily. 

"Do  not  name  him  to  me,"  cries  Mademoiselle  de 
Hautefort  impatiently.  "Schomberg  is  nothing  to  me 
in  comparison  with  the  Queen.  Had  I  remained  with 
her,  I  could  never,  never  have  married!" 

"Well,  you  will  now,"  and  the  Duchess  laughs. 
"But  what  happened]     Do  go  on." 

"Alas!  I  lost  my  temper.  I  was  irritated  at  her 
Majesty  refusing  me  so  small  a  favour.  I  told  her  she 
had  forgotten  the  claims  of  her  old  friends,  who  had 
suffered  so  much  in  her  service." 

"That  was  wrong,  ungenerous,"  interposes  Madame 
de  Chevreuse.  "A  favour  ceases  to  be  a  favour,  if  it 
be  made  a  subject  of  reproach;  besides " 

"Ah!  I  know  it  too  well!"   and  Mademoiselle  de 


112  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

Hautefort  almost  groans  with  anguish;  "and  it  is  that 
which  breaks  my  heart;  it  is  my  own  fault.  The 
Queen,  in  one  moment,  became  more  excited  than  I 
had  ever  seen  her.  Her  face  turned  crimson,  she 
threw  herself  on  her  bed,  commanded  me  to  close  the 
curtains,  and  to  retire.  I  disobeyed  her.  I  could  not 
help  it.  I  cast  myself  on  the  ground  within  the  ruelle 
of  her  bed.  I  clasped  my  hands.  I  told  her  I  called 
God  to  witness  of  my  love,  my  devotion  to  her.  I  im- 
plored her  to  recall  the  past,  to  remember  his  Majesty 
Louis  XUI." 

"Ah!  you  were  very  wrong,"  exclaims  Madame 
de  Chevreuse;  "most  impolitic,  most  undutiful.  You 
have  a  good  heart,  mademoiselle,  but  you  are  too  im- 
pulsive." 

"It  is  true,"  answers  Mademoiselle  de  Hautefort 
humbly.  "Her  Majesty  grew  more  and  more  dis- 
pleased, she  said  that  she  must  have  me  know  she 
would  allow  no  one  about  her  who  did  not  love  and 
respect  her;  then  she  went  on  to  say  that  I  had  made 
observations  upon  her  valued  servant.  Cardinal  Mazarin, 
which  were  very  displeasing  to  her.  I  replied  too 
hastily  that  it  was  my  care  for  her  honour  that  had 
made  me  do  so;  that  reports  were  circulating  injurious 
to  her,  and  that  I  longed  to  see  the  departure  of  a 
minister  whose  presence  compromised  her." 

"What  imprudence!"  cries  Madame  de  Chevreuse, 
lifting  up  her  hands.  "How  could  you  dare  to  say 
this]" 

"It  is  quite  true,  however,"  rejoins  Madame  de 
Noailles,  "and  it  was  the  part  of  a  true  friend  to  tell 
her." 

"Would  to  God  I  had  been  silent!"  continues  Ma- 


"put  not  thy  trust  in  princes."  I  I  3 

demoiselle  de  Hautefort;  "no  sooner  were  the  words 
out  of  my  mouth  than  the  Queen  sternly  ordered  me 
to  extinguish  the  lights  and  to  withdraw.  I  rose  from 
my  knees  more  dead  than  alive  and  departed.  When 
I  awoke  this  morning  I  received  an  order  commanding 
me  not  to  approach  within  forty  miles  of  the  Court. 
Oh  it  is  dreadful!" 

"Come  with  me  into  Touraine,  my  carriage  waits 
below.  We  will  stop  at  your  lodgings  in  order  to 
give  your  people  time  to  pack.  Come,  dear  friend, 
we  have  lived  side  by  side  among  the  splendours  of  a 
court,  we  have  suffered  persecution  for  the  same  mis- 
tress, we  love  her  devotedly,  spite  of  all  injuries.  Let 
us  now  comfort  each  other  in  exile." 

Mademoiselle  de  Hautefort  casts  herself  into  the 
arms  of  the  Duchess. 

"You  will  not  keep  her  long,"  observes  Madame 
de  Noailles  with  a  smile,  "we  shall  soon  see  her  back 
at  Court,  as  Madame  la  Marechale  de  Schomberg, 
more  blooming  than  ever." 

"No,  no,"  sobs  Mademoiselle  de  Hautefort. 
"Never!" 

"Adieu,  madame,"  says  the  Duchesse  de  Chevreuse, 
saluting  Madame  de  Noailles,  and  taking  Mademoiselle 
de  Hautefort  by  the  hand.  "Excuse  our  abrupt  de- 
parture, but  the  sooner  we  quit  Paris  the  better.  My 
friend  and  I  would  desire  in  all  things  to  obey  her 
Majesty's  pleasure.  Let  us  hope  to  meet  in  happier 
days.  Ma  ch^re"  adds  she  more  gaily,  addressing  the 
maid  of  honour,  "we  shall  not  die  of  ennui  at  my 
chateau." 

Mademoiselle  de  Hautefort  only  replies  with  sobs. 
The  idea  of  departing  overcame  her. 

Old  Court  Lift  in  France.    II.  8 


114  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   FRANCE. 

"Some  gentlemen  of  our  acquaintance  will  attend 


us." 


"How  like  the  Duchess!  She  cannot  exist  without 
lovers,"  mutters  Madame  de  Noailles,  to  herself. 
Meanwhile  she  attended  the  two  ladies  to  the  head 
of  the  staircase,  with  great  apparent  affection  kissing 
them  on  both  cheeks.  She  watched  their  departure 
from  a  window  and  waved  her  hand  to  them,  affecting 
to  weep. 

"What  a  relief  they  are  gone!"  she  exclaims,  taking 
out  her  watch.  ''Ma/oi,  how  long  they  have  stayed! 
It  is  time  for  me  to  dress  for  the  Queen's  circle.  Now 
they  are  gone,  there  is  no  one  in  my  way  at  Court.  I 
am  sure  of  favour — perhaps  of  confidence.  Her  Majesty 
must  unbosom  herself  to  some  one;  why  not  to  me? 
In  half  an  hour  I  must  be  at  the  palace,"  and  she 
rang  and  ordered  her  coach. 

The  Duchesse  de  Chevreuse  was  never  again  called 
to  the  side  of  Anne  of  Austria.  Her  hatred  of  Cardinal 
Mazarin  forbade  it.  She  became  one  of  the  principal 
leaders  of  that  "Ladies'  Battle,"  the  Fronde. 

Nor  was  Mademoiselle  de  Hautefort  ever  forgiven 
her  bluntness  on  the  Queen's  very  equivocal  behaviour. 
As  Mar^chale  de  Schomberg,  however,  she  re-appeared 
at  Court,  but  found  Anne  of  Austria  lost  to  her  for 
ever. 

The  Duchesse  de  Noailles  wore  dresses  cut  in 
accordance  with  her  Majesty's  taste.  Although  she 
never  became  the  Queen's  confidante,  for  many  years, 
she  held  a  high  station  at  Court. 


CHARLES   STUART.  I  I  5 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

Charles  Stuart. 


Louise  de  Montpensier— only  daughter  of  Gaston, 
Due  d'Orleans,  second  son  of  Henry  IV.  and  of  Marie 
de  Bourbon-Montpensier — was,  as  has  been  said,  the 
greatest  heiress  in  Europe.  Her  girlhood  was  passed 
with  Anne  of  Austria.  When  Louis  XIV.  was  born 
the  Queen  called  her  ma  fille.  When  Mademoiselle 
romped  with  the  boy-king,  she  addressed  him  as  mon 
mart. 

In  spite  of  the  long  nose  of  the  Bourbons,  la 
Grande  Mademoiselle,  as  she  was  called,  was  fairly 
good  looking.  She  was  tall  and  shapely,  with  regular 
features,  a  good  skin,  finely  cut  blue  eyes,  pencilled 
eyebrows,  a  large,  though  well-formed  mouth,  and 
good  teeth.  Flowing  ringlets  of  light  hair  framed  her 
face  and  fell  over  her  rounded  shoulders.  She  had, 
moreover,  an  unmistakable  air  of  command. 

Her  character  may  be  best  described  in  negatives. 
She  was  not  a  heroine,  although  circumstances  made 
her  appear  one.  She  understood  politics,  but  had 
little  capacity  for  a  ruler.  She  had  no  fortitude,  al- 
tliough  possessing  a  certain  elevation  of  character  that 
lifted  her  above  commonplace.  She  was  selfish  and 
cold-hearted,  yet  capable  of  warm  attachments.  She 
was  ostentatious  in  the  use  of  her  great  wealth,  but 
not  charitable.  She  was  blinded  by  conceit,  yet  was 
not  wanting  in  shrewdness  and  judgment.  She  was 
haughty,  yet  loved  to  condescend  to  the  populace. 
She  was  excessively  ridiculous,  yet  affected  extreme 
dignity.    Whatever  advantages  she  possessed  were  but 


I  I  6  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

too  well  known  to  herself.  Of  her  faults — and  they 
were  many — she  was  entirely  ignorant.  Placed  be- 
tween two  parties,  the  Queen  and  the  Fronde,  she  was 
courted  by  both,  and  grew  headstrong  and  ambitious 
in  consequence.  Although  she  ardently  desired  to 
marry  her  cousin  Louis  XIV.,  she  went  out  of  her 
way  to  offend,  nay,  even  to  outrage  him.  Yet  uncon- 
scious of  all  her  follies,  to  the  day  of  her  death  she 
firmly  believed  she  was  by  wealth,  position,  and  genius 
raised  upon  a  pedestal  which  all  Europe  contemplated 
with  admiring  curiosity.  Every  crowned  bachelor 
within  the  civilised  world,  according  to  her,  sought 
her  hand  in  marriage. 

After  the  defeat  at  Worcester,  Charles  Stuart 
escaped  to  the  Continent.  His  mother  had  already 
fled  to  France.  Poor  Henrietta  Maria  (wrinkled,  and 
prematurely  old,  with  tear-furrowed  cheeks,  and  dull, 
hollow  eyes,  her  fragrant  curls,  so  often  painted  by 
Vandyke,  grown  grey,  her  royal  carriage  bowed  by 
the  weight  of  adversity)  lived  with  her  young  daughter 
Henrietta,  afterwards  Duchesse  d'Orleans,  sister-in-law 
of  Louis  XIV.,  at  the  Louvre,  in  right  of  her  birth  as 
Fille  de  France.  For  a  time  this  Queen  of  Shadows, 
the  relict  of  a  defunct  monarchy,  bore  the  splendour 
of  her  former  state.  But  one  by  one  her  ladies  in 
waiting,  grooms  of  the  chamber,  maids  of  honour, 
footmen,  chamberlains,  and  pages  disappeared.  At 
last  she  grew  too  poor  even  to  procure  sufficient  fuel 
to  keep  out  the  winter  cold.  Though  living  in  a 
palace,  she  was  glad,  with  the  young  princess  her 
daughter,  to  lie  in  bed  for  the  sake  of  warmth. 

Mademoiselle  patronised  this  afflicted  relative,  and 
frequently   visited  her.     But  she   does  not  appear  to 


CHARLES   STUART.  I  1  " 

have  ministered  to  her  necessities.  Henrietta  was 
resigned,  even  humble  to  the  exalted  princess,  her 
niece;  and  dwelt  often  on  the  personal  charms  of  her 
eldest  son,  Charles  Stuait. 

She  painted  him  with  a  brush  dipped  in  the 
roseate  colours  of  a  mother's  fancy.  He  was,  she 
said,  brave,  gallant,  handsome,  witty,  accomplished. 
He  had  splendid  black  hair,  a  rich  complexion,  as  of 
one  much  exposed  to  battles  and  an  adventurous  life, 
and  the  bearing  of  a  Paladin.  He  would  be  certain 
to  crush  his  enemies,  and  sit  upon  his  father's  throne, 
she  told  her  niece.  But  the  wily  heiress,  while  she 
listened  to  the  eager  gossip  of  the  broken-hearted 
Queen,  was  pre-occupied  by  a  matrimonial  intrigue 
carried  on  by  a  certain  Abbe  de  la  Riviere,  to  make 
her  Empress  of  Germany. 

"I  perfectly  understood  my  aunt's  drift,"  she  says; 
"but  I  liked  the  Emperor  better." 

When  Charles  Stuart,  having  escaped  almost  by  a 
miracle  from  England,  arrived  at  Fontainebleau,  where 
the  Court  was  staying,  he  was  presented  to  Mademoi- 
selle by  his  mother.  Charles  saluted  her  as  a  cousin 
and  a  friend,  saluted  her  in  dumb  show,  however,  for 
he  could  speak  no  French.  The  exiled  Queen,  there- 
fore (already  grasping  in  anticipation  the  revenues  of 
the  principalities,  dukedoms,  forests,  and  castles  of 
her  wealthy  niece),  set  herself  to  act  interpreter. 

Charles  Stuart  had  a  melting  eye  and  a  manly 
presence.  He  dallied  with  his  cousin,  sat  beside  her 
when  she  played,  led  her  to  her  coach,  held  the  flam- 
beau while  she  adjusted  her  dress,  was  again  found  at 
her  door — having  run  on  in  front — to  assist  her  to 
descend,  and  generally  ogled,  languished,  gazed,  and 


Il8  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

sighed,  to  the  very  utmost  of  his  power.  But  a  dumb 
lover  is  dull,  and  love-making  by  proxy  never  answers. 
La  Grande  Mademoiselle,  already  in  imagination  in- 
vested with  the  diadem  of  an  Empress,  did  not  fancy 
a  prince  who  was  only  an  exile,  and  who  could  not 
even  plead  his  own  cause.  She  looked  on  him  as  a 
bore — indeed,  worse  than  a  bore,  an  object  of  pit}'. 

The  Queen  of  England  tried  hard  to  melt  her 
heart.  She  even  coaxed  her;  with  her  own  hands  she 
decked  her  soft  hair  with  jewels  for  her  Majesty's 
ballet.  She  flattered  her  into  a  belief  that  she  was 
as  beautiful  as  Venus.  She  declared  that  Charles 
Stuart's  heart  was  breaking,  that  his  health  suffered, 
that  he  would  die.  No  mother  ever  served  a  son 
better  than  did  this  poor  distracted  lady.  But  there 
was  her  son,  with  his  swarthy,  hard  face,  as  strong 
and  hale  as  an  oak  sapling,  his  wanton  black  eye 
wandering  over  the  belles  of  the  French  Court, — a 
living  contradiction  to  all  she  said!  At  last,  Charles 
Stuart,  who  cared  less  for  the  well-filled  purse  and 
boundless  dominions  of  his  cousin  than  his  mother, 
who  knew  what  it  was  to  be  pinched  with  cold  and 
hunger,  grew  impatient,  and  insisted  on  an  answer. 
He  sent  Lord  St.  Germains  to  Mademoiselle  to  say 
that  he  was  so  passionately  in  love  with  her,  he  could 
no  longer  bear  suspense.  Mademoiselle  replied  with 
the  discretion  of  a  maiden,  and  the  judgment  of  an 
heiress,  conscious  that  she  was  dealing  with  a  royal 
fortune-hunter — 

"The  Prince  of  Wales  did  her  great  honour,  but 
as  she  understood  that  he  required  much  pecuniary 
assistance  to  recover  the  Crown  of  England,  his  birth- 
right,  she  feared  she  might  find  herself  overwhelmed 


CHARLES   STUART.  IIQ 

with  expenses  incompatible  with  the  wants  of  a  person 
of  her  exalted  rank.  That  she  must,  in  consequence, 
make  sacrifices  and  adopt  resolutions  difficult  to  con- 
template. That  she  might  risk  the  loss  of  her  entire 
possessions  on  the  chance  of  Charles's  re-conquering 
his  kingdom;  and  that,  having  been  educated  in 
splendour  as  one  of  the  greatest  princesses  in  the 
world,  the  prospect  alarmed  her." 

Yet  there  must  have  been  some  charm  about  the 
hard-featured,  stalwart  youth  that  attracted  her;  she 
would  not  say,  "No."  In  order  to  throw  down  a 
bait,  she  hinted  that  she  desired  him  to  change  his 
religion. 

"Impossible,  m.adame,"  was  the  reply  of  Lord  St. 
Germains.  "A  king  of  England  cannot  change  his 
religion.  He  would  exclude  himself  for  ever  from  the 
throne!" 

Again,  however,  Charles  was  permitted  to  ap- 
proach her,  and  to  make  a  last  attempt.  She  relished 
a  little  mild  flirtation  with  an  exiled  King,  although 
she  vastly  preferred  marriage  with  an  Emperor.  Never- 
theless, she  curled  her  hair  in  honour  of  the  occasion, 
a  thing  not  usual  with  her. 

"Ah,  look  at  her!"  said  the  Queen-Regent,  when 
she  appeared  in  the  evening:  "it  is  easy  to  see  she  is 
expecting  a  lover.     See! — how  she  is  decked  out!" 

Mademoiselle  blushed,  but  was  too  discreet  to 
commit  herself  by  a  single  word. 

When  Charles  Stuart  entered  the  Queen's  saloon 
he  looked  provokingly  well.  His  mother,  nervously 
alive  to  every  trifle,  felt  this.  A  man  with  such  a  con- 
stitution was  not  adapted  to  play  the  part  of  a  despair- 
ing lover.     When  questioned  by  the  Queen  about  his 


120  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

affairs  in  England,  he  replied  that  he  knew  nothing. 
Mademoiselle  instantly  formed  a  bad  opinion  of  him. 
She  turned  to  her  lady  in  waiting,  Madame  de  Fiesque, 
and  whispered  — 

"He  is  too  much  of  a  Bourbon  for  me.  Quite 
engrossed  by  trifles"  {the  race  has  not  changed).  "He 
can  talk  about  dogs  and  horses  and  the  chase  to  her 
Majesty,  but  he  has  nothing  to  say  about  the  revolu- 
tion in  England." 

Later  in  the  evening,  at  the  royal  table,  Made- 
moiselle was  shocked  at  Charles's  coarse  appetite.  He 
despised  orlotans  and  Italian  pastry,  and  threw  himself 
upon  a  joint  of  beef.  Not  satisfied  with  that,  he  ended 
by  a  shoulder  of  mutton.  "A  despairing  lover  ought 
not  to  have  such  a  monstrous  appetite,  or  he  should 
satisfy  the  cravings  of  hunger  beforehand,"  thought 
Mademoiselle.  He  stared  fixedly  at  her,  with  his  big 
black  eyes  shaded  by  heavy  eyebrows,  while  he  was 
shovelling  huge  pieces  of  meat  down  his  throat,  but 
he  never  spoke.  Truly  this  was  not  a  fashion  of 
pushing  his  suit  with  a  fastidious  princess  who  desired 
to  be  an  empress! 

Mademoiselle  yawned,  looked  at  him  under  her 
eyelids,  shrugged  her  shapely  shoulders,  and  called 
her  lady  in  waiting  to  her  side  to  amuse  her.  Thus 
passed  the  precious  moments  which  were  to  decide 
the  momentous  question — would  she,  or  would  she 
not? 

At  length,  having  gorged  in  a  prodigious  manner, 
Charles  Stuart  rose.  He  made  Mademoiselle  a  formal 
bow,  and  opened  his  mouth  to  speak  for  the  first  time. 
"I  hope,"  he  said,  in  very  bad  French,  "my  Lord 
St.   Germains    has    explained    to    your    Highness    the 


CHARLES   STUART.  I  2  I 

sentiments  with  which  you  have  inspired  me.  I  am, 
madame,  your  very  humble  servant." 

Mademoiselle  rose  to  her  feet,  made  him  a  formal 
curtsey,  and  replied,  "Sir,  I  am  your  very  humble 
servant." 

So  ended  this  wooing;  but  poor  Henrietta  Maria, 
figuratively  rending  her  clothes  and  sprinkling  ashes 
on  her  head  at  such  a  conclusion,  could  not  let  Made- 
moiselle off  without  one  Parthian  shot.  "I  see,"  said 
she,  "my  son  is  too  poor  and  too  unfortunate  for 
you,  my  niece.  It  is  quite  possible,  however,  that  a 
king  of  eighteen  may  be  better  worth  having  than  an 
elderly  emperor  with  four  children."  This  little  ebulli- 
tion of  spite  is  pardonable  in  an  unfortunate  Queen 
whose  heart  was  broken.  Let  it  not  lie  heavy  on  her 
memory!  ^ 

Meanwhile,  the  struggle  between  the  Queen-Regent 
and  her  ministers  on  one  side,  and  the  parliament  and 
Gondi  on  the  other,  had  become  more  and  more  en- 
venomed. At  length  the  Queen-Regent,  under  advice 
of  Mazarin,  resolved  by  a  coup  d'etat  to  restore  the 
royal  authority. 

It  is  Twelfth-night.  Anne  of  Austria  is  spending 
the  evening  in  her  closet,  watching  the  King  and  his 
brother,  the  Due  d'Anjou — both  dressed  in  character 
— struggle  on  the  floor  over  the  remains  of  the  cake 
from  which  they  had  dug  the  "bean"  and  the  "ring." 
Louis  XIV.  is  a  handsome  boy,  docile  yet  spirited; 
Philip  of  Anjou  is  puny,  peevish,  and  cowardly. 

Anne  of  Austria  leans  against  the  back  of  a  chair, 
and  watches  the  two  boys.  Her  ladies  watch  her. 
There  is  a  strange  rumour  that  her  Majesty  is  to  leave 
Paris  that  very  night.     To  look  into  her  placid  face, 


122  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   FRANCE. 

such  an  idea  seems  absurd.  By-and-by,  Mazarin  and 
some  of  the  princes  of  the  blood  come  in  to  ask  her 
pleasure  for  the  morrow.  They  do  not  remain,  as 
there  is  a  supper  at  the  Marechal  de  Grammont's  in 
honour  of  the  day.  When  they  are  gone,  the  Queen 
turns  to  Madame  de  la  Tremouille. 

"I  shall  go  to-morrow  to  the  Val  de  Grace.  Give 
orders  that  everything  may  be  ready  for  me.  Call 
Beringhen;  it  is  time  for  his  Majesty  and  the  Duke  to 
go  to  bed." 

The  King  at  once  comes  forward  to  bid  his  mother 
good  night.     The  Duke  begins  to  cry. 

"What  is  it,  my  son?"  says  the  Queen. 

"I  want,  Madame,  to  go  with  you  to  the  Val  de 
Grace  to-morrow — do  let  me!"  and  he  kneels  and 
kisses  her  hand. 

"If  I  go,  my  son,  I  promise  to  take  you.  Now, 
good  night,  Philip,"  and  she  raises  him  in  her  arms, 
and  kisses  him;  "do  not  keep  his  Majesty  waiting." 

She  retires  early.  Those  ladies  who  do  not  sleep 
at  the  Palais  Royal  leave,  and  the  gates  are-  closed. 

At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Mademoiselle  de 
Montpensier,  at  the  Palace  of  the  Luxembourg,  is 
awakened  by  a  violent  knocking.  She  rouses  her 
women,  and  orders  them  to  see  who  is  there.  It  is  a 
messenger  from  the  Queen. 

"Let  him  enter,"  says  Mademoiselle,  speaking  from 
her  bed.  It  is  well  to  say  that  Mademoiselle  was 
entirely  concealed  by  heavy  curtains,  and  that  the  bed 
stood  in  a  deep  alcove. 

"The  Captain  of  the  Queen's  Guard  awaits  your 
highness's  pleasure,"  calls  out  Monsieur  de  Comminges, 
from  the  door. 


CHARLES   STUART.  123 


r 


"What  has  brought  you  here  at  this  time  of  night. 
Comminges]"  asks  Mademoiselle  from  her  bed. 

"Your  highness,  the  Court  is  leaving  Paris  secretly. 
Her  Majesty  commands  your  attendance.  Here  is  a 
letter  which  will  explain  the  Queen's  wishes." 

"Monsieur  de  Comminges,"  replies  Mademoiselle 
— who  at  that  time  had  not  conceived  the  possibility 
of  being  one  of  the  a  la  mode  leaders  of  the  Fronde, 
and  pointing  the  guns  of  the  Bastille  against  her  cousin, 
the  King — putting  the  letter  under  her  pillow,  "the 
commands  of  her  Majesty  are  sufficient  for  me.  I  need 
no  letter  to  enforce  them.  Retire,  Monsieur  le  Capitaine, 
into  the  ante-room.  I  will  rise  instantly,  and  accompany 
you.  But  tell  me,  Monsieur  de  Comminges" — calling 
after  him — "where  are  we  to  go  to?" 

"To  Saint-Germain  en  Laye,  your  highness." 

In  a  short  time  Mademoiselle  is  ready.  Without 
waiting  for  her  women,  or  what  she  calls  her  "equipage" 
(which  she  desired  to  have  sent  after  her),  she  goes 
out  into  the  night  accompanied  by  Monsieur  de  Com- 
minges, whose  coach  waits  without.  It  was  pitch  dark, 
but  with  the  help  of  a  flambeau  they  traverse  the 
unpaved  and  ill-lit  streets,  and  reach  the  garden  en- 
trance of  the  Palais  Royal  without  accident.  There 
they  find  another  coach  drawn  up  under  some  trees. 
Within  sits  Anne  .of  Austria;  the  two  princes  are  each 
in  a  corner — Louis  XIV.  very  sleepy  and  cross,  the 
Due  d'Anjou  crying.  Mademoiselle  is  instandy  trans- 
ferred into  the  royal  coach. 

"Are  you  frightened,  my  cousin  1"  asks  the  Queen, 
speaking  out  of  the  darkness  to  Mademoiselle. 

"Not  in  the  least,  Madame,"  is  her  reply.     "I  will 


124  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 


•» 


follow  your  Majesty  anywhere,"  and  she  takes  her  place 
opposite  to  her  in  the  coach. 

It  is  a  long  and  weary  drive  to  Saint-Germain. 
When  they  arrive  it  is  breakfast-time.  But  the  Queen 
commands  every  creature,  including  her  children,  into 
the  chapel  to  hear  mass.  As  soon  as  they  had  time 
to  look  round,  they  find  the  palace  (a  dreary,  gaunt 
edifice  at  all  times)  cold  and  wretched  beyond  de- 
scription in  a  dark  January  morning.  The  rooms  are 
entirely  empty — Mazarin  having  made  no  provision 
for  the  Queen's  arrival,  out  of  fear,  perhaps,  that  her 
flight  might  become  known.  There  are  neither  beds, 
furniture,  nor  linen.  There  is  not  a  servant  or  attendant 
of  any  kind  but  such  as  have  accompanied  them.  When 
it  is  night  the  Queen  lies  down  to  rest  on  a  little  camp 
bedstead.  The  King  and  his  brother  fare  no  better. 
Mademoiselle  is  accommodated  with  a  straw  mattress 
in  a  magnificent  saloon  on  the  third  floor.  There 
were  plenty  of  mirrors  and  much  gilding,  and  the 
windows  were  lofty,  and  commanded  an  extensive  view, 
but  there  is  not  a  single  pane  of  glass  in  one  of  them! 
No  one  has  a  change  of  linen.  What  was  worn  by 
night  was  washed  by  day.  The  Queen  laughs  at 
everything.  She  says — "It  is  an  escapade  which  will 
at  most  last  three  days;  when  the  citizens  find  that  the 
Court  has  left  the  Palais  Royal  they  will  speedily  come 
to  their  senses." 


THE   LADIES    WAR.  125 


CHAPTER   XIV 
The  Ladies'  War. 


When  the  citizens  of  Paris  find  that  the  Court  had 
left  the  Palais  Royal,  instead  of  coming  to  their  senses, 
they  were  furious.  The  Coadjutor,  who  had  broken 
with  the  Regent,  ruled  supreme.  He  skilfully  availed 
himself  of  the  crisis,  and  caused  the  parliament  to  pass 
the  act  against  aliens.  This  measure  outlawed  Mazarin 
as  an  enemy  of  the  King  and  of  the  State,  a  conspirator, 
a  perjurer,  and  a  thief;  confiscated  his  possessions, 
and  enjoined  all  faithful  subjects  to  shoot  him  without 
trial. 

Civil  war  breaks  out.  The  troops  of  the  Queen- 
Regent  were  but  feebly  attacked.  It  was  the  hearts  of 
her  generals  that  were  vigorously  assailed  by  the  lady 
commandants  of  the  Fronde,  whose  artillery  was  blan- 
dishments and  enticements. 

Every  soul  in  Paris  armed  himself,  and  took  the 
field  in  whatever  costume  he  usually  wore.  The  nobles 
led  the  way  in  feathered  hats,  satin  doublets,  silk  stock- 
ings, and  high-heeled  boots.  No  one  knew  what  they 
were  fighting  for.  The  cry  was,  "  Vive  la  Fronde!" 
''Mort  a  Mazarin!" 

The  Duchesse  de  Longueville,  supported  by  her 
brother,  the  great  Conde,  took  possession  of  the 
executive  government  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  She  was 
quickly  joined  by  the  Duchesses  de  Chevreuse  and  De 
Montbazon.  The  Due  de  Beaufort  was  set  at  liberty. 
But  as  it  was  quite  a  "Ladies'  War,"  he  acted  only  as 
subordinate.  The  Duchesses  distributed  all  the  military 
posts   and   honours   among    themselves — they   created 


120  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

themselves  generals,  lieutenants,  and  colonels,  like  so 
many  Bellonas.  War  was  waged  on  quite  new  prin- 
ciples: Marechal  d'Hocquincourt,  defending  Peronne 
for  the  Queen-Regent,  assured  the  Duchesse  de  Mont- 
bazon,  who  invested  it  for  the  Fronde,  "That  Peronne 
was  at  the  service  of  the  fairest  of  the  fair." 

Not  so  la  Grande  Mademoiselle.  She  ranged  herself 
on  the  popular  side  against  the  Court,  and  commanded 
at  the  Bastille.  She  fought  in  good  earnest,  and  pointed 
the  well-loaded  guns  of  that  fortress  against  her  King 
and  cousin,  who,  with  his  army,  lay  encamped  without 
the  walls  of  Paris.  Louis  retreated  precipitately  to 
Saint-Denis. 

We  are  in  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  within  the  apartment 
of  one  of  the  very  prettiest  aides-de-camp  attached  to 
the  Duchesse  de  Longueville.  This  fair  lady.  Made- 
moiselle de  Rosny,  has  just  linished  a  most  elaborate 
toilette,  and  having  arranged  the  innumerable  little 
curls  (then  so  much  in  vogue)  round  her  face,  and 
fastened  the  proper  quantity  of  ribbon  in  her  dark 
locks,  takes  a  last  fond  look  in  the  glass,  and  then 
seats  herself  in  the  happiest  possible  state  of  expectation. 
Now  there  is  a  certain  all-conquering  beau — Monsieur 
d'Aumale  by  name — who  has  more  than  half  achieved 
the  conquest  of  her  heart;  and  she  has  a  kind  of  pre- 
sentiment that  the  morning  will  not  pass  without  a 
visit  from  this  pearl  of  cavaliers.  Nor  is  she  mistaken: 
a  soft  knock  at  her  door  announces  the  approach  of 
some  one.  How  her  heart  beats !  It  must  be  M.  d'Aumale ! 
So  she  says,  ^'■Entrez!"  in  a  trembling  voice,  and 
d'Aumale  stands  before  her. 

"Mademoiselle  de  Rosny,"  he  exclaims,   "I  am  in 


THE  ladies'  war.  127 

the  utmost  haste,  I  am  come  to  beg  you  to  be  present 
at  the  most  singular  spectacle  you  ever  beheld." 

"What  may  it  hel"  replies  she,  rather  chagrined 
that  instead  of  a  tender  love-scene,  such  as  she  anti- 
cipated, M.  d'Aumale  seems  so  preoccupied. 

"It  is  a  review,  mademoiselle,  ordered  by  the 
council;  but,  ha!  ha!  such  a  review!  Morbleu,  you 
will  never  guess  of  whom — the  oddest  idea!  It  is  no 
other  than  a  review  of  priests,  monks,  and  seminarists, 
all  sword  in  hand,  and  ready  to  charge  the  enemy. 
It  is  the  strangest  idea  of  defence  that  ever  was  con- 
ceived; but  as  we  have  lady-generals,  and  the  grande 
Mademoiselle  for  commander  in  chief,  we  are  now 
to  have  an  army  of  priests  for  them  to  lead  to  battle. 
These  tonsured  recruits  are  actually  now  all  assembling 
on  the  bridge  near  Notre-Dame.    You  must  be  quick." 

"Was  ever  anything  so  ridiculous!"  and  Made- 
moiselle de  Rosny  laughs.  "But  I  shall  be  terrified 
at  their  awkwardness;  they  will  be  sure  to  fire  too  low 
and  hit  us." 

"Oh,  but  you  must  come.  I  will  be  your  guard; 
I  pledge  myself  that  you  shall  return  uninjured,"  and 
d'Aumale  gives  the  lady  a  tender  glance.  "Besides, 
to  reassure  you,  I  believe  that  these  monk-warriors  are 
not  even  to  be  trusted  with,  matches;  the  arquebuses 
and  cannon  are  as  empty  and  as  innocent  as  when  in 
the  arsenal;  so  there  is  nothing  to  fear.  If  you  will 
come,  I  will  conduct  you  in  my  new  coach — the  very 
model  of  elegance — I  will  answer  for  it  there  is  not 
such  another  in  all  Paris." 

"That  will  be  delightful!"  cries  the  lady.  "I  do 
admire  those  new  coaches  so  much,  if  it  were  not  for 
this   abominable   war,   I  suppose   they  would  become 


128  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

universal.  Well,  Monsieur  d'Aumale,  I  am  ready!  let 
us  see  these  monks;  it  will  be  a  good  story  with  which 
to  entertain  Madame  la  Duchesse  de  Longueville  this 
evening  at  her  reception.  How  the  Due  de  Beaufort 
will  laugh!" 

In  high  glee  Mademoiselle  de  Rosny  departed, 
accompanied  by  her  admirer,  her  pleasure  not  a  little 
heightened  by  the  idea  of  appearing  in  a  coach,  then 
by  no  means  common  in  Paris,  and  reserved  generally 
for  royalty,  or  for  grand  occasions,  or  state  processions 
— heavy  lumbering  vehicles,  such  as  figure  in  the  old 
prints  of  that  period,  with  a  sloping  roof  like'  a  house, 
and  drawn  by  Flemish  horses  of  huge  dirnensions. 
On  arriving  near  the  bridge,  they  stop  under  the  shadow 
of  the  cathedral,  and  there  behold  the  most  extra- 
ordinary spectacle.  All  the  young  monks  in  Paris  are 
crowded  near  Notre-Dame,  with  the  exception  of  the 
Benedictines  and  some  other  orders,  who  refused  to 
take  any  part  in  this  mummery.  At  least  fifteen  hun- 
dred ecclesiastics,  drawn  up  in  excellent  order,  are 
executing  the  various  manoeuvres  of  march,  halt,  right- 
about face,  &c.,  with  tolerable  precision.  The  greater 
number  have  fastened  up  their  black  robes,  and  in- 
vested their  lower  limbs  with  most  uncanonical  gar- 
ments. The  reverend  fathers,  with  their  hoods  hanging 
over  their  shoulders,  are  booted  and  spurred,  many 
wear  helmets  and  cuirasses,  and  all  carry  such  halberts, 
lances,  swords,  and  bucklers  as  they  had  been  able  to 
lay  hands  on.  Others  grasp  a  crucifix  in  one  hand, 
and  in  the  other  a  pistol,  a  scythe,  an  old  dagger  or  a 
knife,  with  which  each  intends  to  perform  prodigies 
of  valour  against  the  enemies  of  the  Fronde.  As  they 
advance  and  retreat  on  the   dusty  soil   in   lines   and 


THE  LADIES'   WAR.  I  29 

columns,  they  present  the  appearance  of  an  immense 
flight  of  crows  hovering  over  a  field  of  newly  cut 
wheat. 

To  this  martial  array  is  added  the  clamour  of 
drums,  trumpets,  and  warlike  instruments,  accompanied 
with  no  end  of  benedictions.  Or  emus,  and  chanted 
psalms.  At  the  head  of  the  troops  is  a  bishop,  meta- 
morphosed into  a  commander.  He  moves  very  slowly, 
by  reason  of  his  corpulence  and  the  weight  of  the 
armour  he  wears,  and  looks  like  a  dilapidated  St 
George,  minus  the  dragon.  Then  come  Carthusians, 
Begging  Friars,  Capuchins,  and  Seminarists,  each 
different  order  led  by  their  abbot  or  prior.  They  all 
advance  gravely  with  the  orthodox  goose-step.  Cries 
of  "Down  with  the  Regent!"  "Death  to  Mazarin!" 
*^A  bas  the  Italian  beggar!"  "Long  live  the  Union!" 
"  Vive  la  Duchesse!"  "  Vive  la  Fronde!"  add  to  the 
clamour  of  the  martial  music  and  the  psalms.  Made- 
moiselle de  Rosny  is  fain  to  hold  both  her  ears,  not- 
withstanding all  the  sweet  things  her  companion  is 
whispering.  The  mob  of  Paris  en  masse  is  assembled 
to  witness  this  extraordinary  review,  and  to  rejoice  in 
the  unexpected  aid  contributed  by  the  Church  in  the 
general  emergency.  Nor  is  M.  d'Aumale's  the  only 
coach  on  the  Quai  Notre-Dame  that  day;  many  other 
possessors  of  such  vehicles  have  been  attracted  by  the 
scene.  The  Legate  is  among  the  number.  The  crowd 
is  immense,  the  applause  enthusiastic. 

"■del!"  calls  out  Mademoiselle  de  Rosny,  on  a 
sudden.  "Look — Oh  look!  Monsieur  d'Aumale,  you 
have  deceived  me,  I  am  sure.  They  are  going  to 
fire!" 

"No,  no,"   replies  d'Aumale,  "believe  me,  you  are 

Old  Court  Lift  in  France.    U.  9 


130  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

mistaken.  'Give  the  monk  his  rosary,  the  soldier  his 
sword,'  says  the  motto.  Messieurs  les  moines  will  not 
venture  to  bum  their  hands  in  attempting  to  handle 
firearms." 

"But  I  tell  you,"  cries  the  lady,  "they  are  going  to 
fire!  Good  heavens,  the  guns  are  all  turned  this  way! 
Oh,  d'Aumale,  we  shall  be  murdered.  Help!'  help!  I 
implore  you!"  And  she  catches  hold  of  him,  and  be- 
gins to  scream  after  the  most  approved  fashion  pre- 
paratory to  a  fit  of  hysterics. 

D'Aumale  looks  out  of  the  window.  "In  the  name 
of  heaven,  beware — beware!"  he  shouts  to  the  priests. 
But  in  the  confusion  his  voice  is  inaudible.  The 
ecclesiastical  artillerymen,  awkward  and  inexperienced, 
have  already  lighted  the  matches,  and  the  cannon, 
which  were  loaded,  explode  right  and  left  in  the 
crowd.     A  fearful  cry  arises  from  the  Legate's  coach. 

"Thank  Heaven,  d'Aumale,  we  have  escaped, — 
this  time  at  least,"  gasps  Mademoiselle  de  Rosny 
in  a  low  voice,  for  she  is  now  calmed  by  excessive 
fear. 

"Yes,  but  I  fancy  some  one  else  has  been  seriously 
wounded.  I  will  alight  and  see,"  says  d'Aumale,  un- 
fastening the  door. 

A  dense  crowd  surrounds  the  coach  belonging  to 
the  Legate.  The  secretary  of  his  eminence  had  been 
shot  dead  by  a  bullet  through  the  chest,  the  Legate's 
confessor  is  wounded  in  the  head,  and  his  two  valets 
also  much  injured.  Never  was  there  such  confusion. 
M.  d'Aumale  hastens  back  to  secure  the  safe  retreat 
of  the  fair  De  Rosny.  They  are  soon  disengaged  from 
the  crowd,  and  rolling  back  over  the  muddy  ground 
to  the  Hotel  de  Ville.     Here  we  must  bid  them  fare- 


MAZARIN  PLAYED   OUT.  I3I 

well,  assuming  that  mademoiselle  soon  secured  the 
possession  of  the  much-admired  coach  by  a  speedy 
marriage  with  its  handsome  owner. 

•  CHAPTER  XV. 

Mazarin  Played  Out. 

The  marriage  bells  peal  merrily  for  the  august 
espousals  of  Louis  XIV.  with  the  Infanta  Maria 
Theresa,  daughter  of  the  King  of  Spain.  The  troubles 
of  the  Fronde  are  over.  Gondi,  the  Coadjutor,  now 
Cardinal  de  Retz,  is  imprisoned.  Cardinal  Mazarin 
has  cemented  a  peace  between  France  and  Spain.  He 
has  triumphed. 

Mazarin  left  Paris  with  a  great  retinue  of  coaches, 
litters,  and  mules,  attended  by  bishops,  secretaries, 
lawyers,  and  priests,  to  meet  the  Spanish  ambassador, 
Don  Luis  da  Haro,  on  the  frontier,  there  to  arrange 
the  preliminaries  of  the  treaty  and  the  marriage.  Don 
Luis  had  already  arrived,  attended  with  equal  splendour. 
A  whole  month  was  lost  in  the  all-important  question 
of  precedence.  Should  Mazarin  call  on  Da  Haro,  or 
Da  Haro  "drop  in"  on  Mazarin  1  This  momentous 
point  was  never  setded.  Mazarin,  the  wily  Italian — // 
Signer  Faquino,  as  the  Prince  de  Conde  calls  him  — 
took  to  his  bed,  hoping  that  the  anxiety  felt  for  his 
health  by  Da  Haro  would  induce  him  to  pocket  his 
Castilian  dignity  and  make  the  first  advance.  But  Da 
Haro  was  not  to  be  caught,  and  obstinately  shut  him- 
self up,  eat,  drank,  and  made  merry  with  the  most 
dogged  patience,  and  the  most  entire  want  of  sympathy. 
So  it  ended  in  this  wise — no  visit  was  made  at  all. 
The  great  plenipotentiaries  met,  quite  unofficially,  on 

9* 


132  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

the  Island  of  Pheasants,  in  the  middle  of  the  River 
Bidassoa,  dividing  France  and  Spain.  There  the  real 
business  was  very  soon  dispatched.  In  process  of 
time,  the  King  and  the  Infanta  were  married. 

The  Infanta  was  very  small,  fair,  and  plump. 
There  was  an  utter  absence  of  expression  in  her  freshly 
complexioned  face;  her  eyes  were  large  and  gentle, 
but  said  absolutely  nothing  of  any  soul  within.  Her 
mouth  was  large,  her  teeth  were  irregular.  Her  dress 
horrified  the  French  ladies.  It  was  unanimously  voted 
tawdry,  ill-made,  and  unbecoming.  As  for  the  ladies 
in  attendance  on  her,  it  was  not  possible  to  find  words 
to  paint  their  grotesqueness.  They  were  black-skinned, 
scraggy,  and  awkward.  They  had  hideous  lace,  and 
wore  enormous  farthingales.  One  of  them,  the  "  gover- 
ness of  the  Infanta,"  is  gibbeted  in  the  pages  of 
history  as  "a  monster."  She  unhappily  wore  what 
are  designated  as  ^'barrels"  under  her  dress.  Sucli 
was  the  first  effect  of  crinoline  on  the  ladies  of  the 
French  nation. 

The  Duchesse  de  Noailles  was  appointed  lady  of  the 
bed  chamber  to  the  new  Queen.  She  was  recommended 
to  this  office  by  the  Queen-dowager,  Anne  of  Austria, 
her  aunt. 

Cardinal  Mazarin  has  now  reached  the  summit  of 
power.  He  has  imprisoned  his  rival  Cardinal  De 
Retz,  and  has  tranquillised  a  great  nation.  He  has 
even  received  the  solemn  thanks  of  the  once  turbulent 
parliament.  He  has  equalled,  if  not  exceeded,  the  re- 
nown of  Richelieu.  After  the  sounding  of  those  mar- 
riage bells  he  returns  to  Paris,  to  repose  upon  his 
laurels.  See  him!  the  artistic  egotist,  who  all  his  life, 
has  fed  on  the  choicest  grapes   from  his  neighbour's 


MAZARIN   PLAYED   OUT.  133 

vine,  and  sipped  the  most  fragrant  honey  from  flowers 
not  his  own.  See  him  within  his  magnificent  palace, 
the  outward  and  visible  evidence  of  the  enormous 
wealth  which  he  no  longer  fears  to  display.  Louis  XIV. 
looks  on  him  as  a  father.  Anne  of  Austria  trembles 
when  he  frowns.  All  France  is  subservient  to  his  rule. 
The  walls  of  his  chamber  are  lined  with  artistic  plun- 
der:— pictures  set  in  gorgeous  frames  of  Florentine 
carving;  statues,  mirrors,  and  glittering  chandeliers; 
tables  and  consoles,  bearing  ornaments  of  inestimable 
value,  in  marble,  bronze,  porcelain,  pottery,  enamel, 
and  gems.  Richest  hangings  of  tapestry,  and  bro- 
caded satin  and  velvet,  more  costly  than  the  gold 
which  surrounds  them,  shade  the  intrusive  sunshine, 
and  tone  all  down  to  that  delicious  half  light  so  dear 
to  the  artistic  sense.  Everything  has  been  arranged 
by  the  hand  of  a  master;  and  there  he  sits,  this 
master,  dying.  The  seeds  of  disease,  sown  on  the 
frontier  where  he  was  detained  by  Da  Haro,  have 
developed  into  a  mortal  malady. 

He  has  just  risen  from  his  bed.  He  reposes  in  a 
chair  on  wheels,  in  which  he  is  rolled  from  frescoed 
gallery  to  marble  vestibule;  from  corridors  of  pictures 
to  precious  libraries;  from  dainty  retiring-rooms  to 
painted  pavilions,  from  guard-room  to  saloon — those 
superb  saloons  where  he  received  the  Court. 

He  even  penetrates  to  the  stables,  and  surveys  his 
priceless  stud;  he  ventures  into  the  magnificent  gardens 
which  surround  his  palace,  to  feast  his  eyes  on  all  his 
vast  possessions.  Returning  again,  greatly  fatigued,  to 
the  picture-gallery,  he  bids  his  attendants  pause.  He 
rests,  absorbed  in  thought,  under  a  Holy  Family,  by 


134  <^^-^   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

Raphael,  a  work  beyond  price,  now  in  the  Louvre, 
Here  he  desires  his  attendants  to  leave  him.  His 
secretary,  who  is  never  beyond  call,  he  commands  to 
wait  his  pleasure  in  the  ante-room,  behind  the  thick 
silken  hangings  that  veil  the  door.  Inadvertently  this 
door  is  left  ajar,  and  the  secretary,  curious  to  know 
what  his  m.aster  is  doing,  looks  through  a  chink  in 
the  curtain,  and  watches  him.  The  Cardinal,  when 
he  has  glanced  round  carefully — to  be  sure  he  is 
alone — lays  hold  of  a  crutch  placed  ready  to  his  hand, 
and  with  the  utmost  difficulty  struggles  to  his  feet,  for 
they  are  swollen,  and  almost  useless  from  gout.  After 
many  efforts  he  disengages  himself  from  the  chair, 
and  reaches  the  ground,  then,  balancing  himself  upon 
the  crutch  and  any  object  near  at  hand,  he  moves  a 
few  steps,  stopping  for  lack  of  breath.  {The  secretary 
doubts  if  he  should  not  rush  in  before  he  falls,  so  un- 
certain and  tottering  are  Mazarin's  movements;  but 
he  forbears,  fearful  of  angering  the  Cardinal,  whom 
suft'ering  has  made  irritable.) 

Mazarin  sighs  deeply  as  he  limps  on  from  picture 
to  picture,  and  surveys  his  favourite  works. 

"I  feel  better,"  he  says,  speaking  aloud.  "If  I 
could  only  get  my  breath,  I  should  recover.  Diami7ie! 
I  shall — I  will  recover.  I  cannot  leave  my  pictures — 
such  a  collection," — and  he  turns  round  with  difficulty, 
and  surveys  the  galleries  —  "not  yet  complete — to 
pass  into  other  hands.  No,  no — it  cannot  be;  I  feel 
'Stronger  already.  I — alone  in  my  gallery  —  without 
those  spies  always  about  me  to  see  my  weakness — I 
can  breathe."  And  he  draws  a  long  breath.  The  long 
breath  ends  in  a  groan.  "That  divine  Raffaello!"  and 
again  he  sighs,  and  turns  to  the  gem  of  his  collection, 


MAZARIN  PLAYED   OUT.  135 

a  Nativity.  "Raffaello  is  m}-  religion.  Credo  in  Raf- 
faello!  What  anima!  That  exquisite  Virgin!  and  the 
Christ  nesthng  in  her  arms!  I  wonder  who  sat  for 
that  virgin?  She  must  have  been  a  perfect  creature!  I 
salute  her  di  cuore.  That  picture  came  to  me  from 
the  King  of  Spain — a  bribe.  Who  cares  1  I  never 
refuse  a  present.  The  King  knows  my  taste.  He 
sent  me  word  there  were  many  more  to  come  if  I  con- 
cluded a  peace.  I  did  conclude  a  peace;  I  took  that 
picture  and  others;  but,  Sangue  di  Dio,  I  was  faithful 
to  France.  Ah,  ha!  I  was  too  sharp  for  him — a  dull 
king!  That  torso  there,  dug  up  at  Portici — what  stal- 
wart limbs!  what  grand  proportions!  How  finely  the 
shadows  fall  upon  the  thigh  from  that  passing  cloud. 
Ahi!  my  foot!"  (and  he  shakes  on  his  crutches  so  vio- 
lently, the  secretary's  head  and  shoulders  are  inside 
the  room,  only  the  Cardinal  does  not  see  him).  "I  am 
better  now,"  falters  Mazarin,  "much  better;"  then,  tak- 
ing a  few  steps  onwards,  he  pauses  before  a  Titian. 
"Venus,  my  Goddess! — Laus  Veneri.  Oh,  the  warmth 
of  the  flesh  tints,  the  turn  of  that  head  and  neck — 
divine!  I  gave  a  great  price  for  that  picture;  but, 
Cospetio!  it  was  not  my  own  money,"  and  he  laughs 
feebly.  "It  will  sell  for  double!  That  Paolo  Veronese 
and  that  Tintoretto  yonder  came  from  the  sale  of 
Charles  I.  of  England,  after  his  execution — those  Eng- 
lish ruffians!  What  supple  forms,  what  classic  features! 
— like  my  native  Romans  in  the  Imperial  city,  where 
the  very  beggars  think  themselves  equal  to  kings;  and 
so  they  axQ,  per  Dio.  Glorious  Italy!  Ahy  cielo!"  and 
he  creeps  on  to  a  favourite  landscape  by  Caracci,  lit, 
as  it  were,  by  the  living  sunshine  of  the  south.  "Ah, 
that  sun — I  feel  it — wonderful!  wonderful! — a  gem  of 


136  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

the   eclectic   school   of  Bologna,   given  to  me  by  the 
Archbishop.     Poor  man,  he  was  not,  like  me,  satisfied 
with  art — ha,  ha!" — his  latigh  ends  in  a  severe  fit  of 
coughing.     "He  liked  nature.    He  could  not  stand  in- 
quiry.— I  helped  him.    Oh,  my  foot!"    (And  he  totters 
so  helplessly,   that   the  secretary,   watching   him  with 
curious  eyes,   again  nearly  rushes  in;  for  if  Mazarin 
dies  his  salary  ceases.)    Recovering,  however,  he  stea- 
dies  himself  against  the  pedestal  of  a  marble   group 
just  arrived  from  Rome,  "Leda  and  the  Swan."     He 
drags  himself  with  difficulty  into  the  recess  where  it  is 
placed,  shifting  his  position,  in  order  to  catch  the  pre- 
cise light  in  which  to  view  the  rounded  limbs  of  the 
figure.     "What   grace,   what  abandon,   in   that   female 
form! — a  trifle  leste  for  the  gallery  of  a  prelate — pre- 
sented,   too,    by   a    lady — a  woman  of  taste,    above 
prejudices.     No   one   has   seen  it.     I  must   invite  the 
Court — the   Queen-mother  will  be   scandalised.      Ha, 
ha!    the   Queen-mother!"    and    he    feebly   winks    and 
laughs;  his  laugh  brings  on  another  fit  of  convulsive 
coughing.     (The   secretary   is   on   the   threshold.)     "I 
must  not  die  before  I  have  disposed  of  my  pictures," 
Marazin  mutters,  breathing  again;  "I  cannot  bear  to 
die! — now,   too,   that  I  have   triumphed   over   all  my 
enemies."   The  Cardinal  sighs  heavily,  shakes  his  head, 
and  casts  a  longing  glance  round   the  painted  walls. 
He  tries  -to  move  onwards;  but  his  strength  fails  him, 
suddenly  his  hands  are  cramped,  the  crutch  falls  on 
the  floor,   he  groans,   sinks  into  a  chair,   and  faintly 
calls  for  assistance. 

The  secretary  is  with  him  in  an  instant,  and  sum- 
mons the  attendants.  Weary,  and  utterly  exhausted, 
they  lay  him  on  his  bed,  where  he  weeps  and  groans, 


MAZARIN  PLAYED   OUT.  I37 

as  much  from  anguish  of  mind  as  from  bodily  pain. 
He  feels  that  nothing  can  amuse  or  delight  him  more, 
neither  singing  men  nor  singing  women,  the  wonders 
of  art,  or  the  flattery  of  Courts.  From  henceforth  to 
him  the  world  must  evermore  be  mute;  the  flowers  in 
the  gardens  he  has  created  shall  no  longer  fling  their 
scented  blossoms  at  his  feet;  to  him  the  birds  are" 
dumb  in  the  groves  he  has  planted,  the  fruits  cease  to 
be  luscious,  and  the  sun  is  already  darkened  by  the 
shadow  of  death.  His  face  turns  of  an  ashy  hue,  and 
he  feebly  calls  for  his  physician. 

One  of  the  many  attendants  that  hover  about  his 
bed,  (each  one  hoping  to  be  remembered  in  that  will 
of  his,  of  which  all  Paris  has  heard,)  flies  to  fetch 
him.  He  appears  in  the  person  of  Guenaud,  the 
Court  doctor  of  that  day. 

Mazarin  has  revived  a  little.  He  is  propped  up 
on  pillows,  to  relieve  his  breathing,  which,  by  reason 
of  the  oppression  on  his  chest,  is  laboured  and  diffi- 
cult. At  the  sight  of  Guenaud  he  trembles;  his  teeth 
chatter.  He  has  summoned  the  leech,  and  now  he 
dares  not  hear  what  he  has  to  say.  Mazarin,  with  his 
sensuous  Italian  temperament,  clings  wildly  to  life. 
He  shrinks  from  the  dark  horrors  of  the  grave — he, 
who  adores  sunshine,  warmth,  open  air,  and  beauty. 

"Well,  Guenaud,  well.  You  are  in  haste  to  come 
to  me." 

"Your  eminence  sent  for  me,"  replies  the  physician 
gravely,  bowing  to  the  ground;  then  he  contemplates 
the  Cardinal  with  that  all-seeing  eye  for  obvious 
symptoms  and  for  remote  details,  that  makes  the 
glance  of  a  doctor  so  awful  to  the  sick. 

"I — I  am  better,  Guenaud — much  better,  now;  I 


138  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

had  fatigued  myself  among  my  pictures.  But  I  did 
much,  Guenaud — I  did  too  much.  I  even  crawled  to 
my  stables — to  my  garden;  I  am  gaining  strength. 
To-morrow " 

Mazarin  stops;  a  severe  fit  of  coughing  almost 
suffocates  him.  Again  the  ashy  hue — grey  as  the  sha- 
dows of  departing  day  when  the  sun  has  set — over- 
casts his  features.  Guenaud  does  not  reply,  but  still 
contemplates  his  patient  attentively.  The  Cardinal 
looks  up;  a  hectic  colour  flushes  his  cheeks. 

"Come,"  says  he,  "speak;  be  honest  with  me.  I  am 
better?"     Guenaud  bows. 

"I  trust  so,"  replies  he. 

"  Sangue  di  Dio!" — and  the  Cardinal  grows  crim- 
son, and  clenches  his  thin  fingers  with  nervous  agony 
— "speak.  Your  silence  agitates  me.  What  have  you 
to  tell  me?  How  long  have  I  to  live?  Shall  I  re- 
cover?" 

Guenaud  shakes  his  head.  Mazarin's  face  again 
becomes  of  a  sudden  deadly  pale.  He  leans  back  on  his 
pillows,  and  sniffs  a  strong  essence  in  a  filigree  bottle 
lying  by  his  side.  "Guenaud,"  says  he,  "I  dread  death, 
but  I  am  no  coward.     I  am  prepared  for  the  worst." 

"I  rejoice  to  hear  it,"  answers  the  physician  solemnly, 
feeling  his  pulse.  "You  will  have  need  of  all  your 
fortitude." 

"Is  it  so?     Well,  then,  let  me  hear  my  fate?" 

"Your  eminence  cannot  live  long.  Nothing  can 
save  you." 

A  strange  look  of  determination  comes  into  the 
Cardinal's  eyes  as  Guenaud  speaks.  Mazarin  was,  as 
he  said,  no  coward;  but  the  flesh  was  weaker  than  the 
spirit,   and  shrank  from  suffering  and   disease.     Now 


MAZARIN  PLAYED   OUT.  1 39 

that  he  has  heard  the  truth,  he  bears  it  better  than 
would  appear  possible  in  one  so  slight,  nervous,  and 
attenuated. 

"I  cannot  flatter  your  eminence,"  continues  Gue- 
naud,  "your  disease  is  incurable;  but  I  admit  that 
remedies  may  prolong  your  life,  though  they  cannot 
preserve  it.  Remedies,  ably  administered,  can  do 
much,  even  in  fatal  cases." 

"I  respect  your  frankness,  doctor,"  says  the  Cardinal 
calmly.     "Speak  out;  how  long  can  I  last?" 

"Your  eminence  may  hope  to  live  for  two  months, 
perhaps,  by  following  the  rules  I  shall  prescribe." 

"Well,  well — two  months!  Ah,  it  is  a  short  time," 
— and  a  nervous  spasm  passes  over  his  face,  and  his 
hands  twitch  with  a  convulsive  spasm.  "I  do  not  die 
of  old  age;  I  have  sacrificed  my  life  to  France  and  to 
the  King.  I  never  got  over  that  negotiation  at  the 
Pyrenees.  Well,  well — so  be  it.  At  least,  I  know  my 
fate.  This  interval  must  be  consecrated  to  the  care  of 
my  soul.  Two  months!  I  shall  do  my  best.  All  my 
brother  prelates  will  assist  me " 

"To  live,  your  eminence?" 

"No,  no,  Guenaud," — and  the  shadow  of  a  smile 
passes  over  his  thin  white  lips, — "no,  no,  not  to  live, 
but  to  die;  to  die  for  the  sake  of  the  abbeys,  bishop- 
rics, and  canonries  my  death  will  leave  vacant.  In 
two  months  one  may  have  a  world  of  indulgences; 
that  is  something.  The  Holy  Father  will  rejoice  at 
having  my  patronage;  he  is  sure  to  give  me  a  helping 
hand;  and  plenty  of  indulgences.  I  stand  well  with 
the  Pope,  Guenaud.  But — but  my  pictures,  my  sta- 
tues— a  collection  I  have  been  making  all  my  life,  at 
such  a  vast  expense.    Who  knows,  Guenaud?  you  may 


140  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

be  mistaken,"  he  added,  brightening  up,  his  mercurial 
nature  rushing  back  into  its  accustomed  channel  at 
the  recollection  of  what  had  been  the  passion  of  his 
life.  "Who  knows,  I  may  get  better!"  and  his  eye 
turns  sharply  upon  the  physician,  with  a  sparkle  of  its 
accustomed  fire;  "eh,  Guenaud — who  knows"?"  Gue- 
naud  bows,  but  is  silent.  "You  may  be  mis- 
taken. Non  importa,  I  must  think  of  my  soul.  It  is 
indeed  a  great  trial — a  sore  trial — a  man  of  my  age, 
too,  with  so  many  years  to  live!  and  such  a  collection! 
You  know  my  collection,  Guenaud?" 

"Yes,  your  eminence,"  answers  he,  bowing. 

"The  finest  in  Europe,"  sighs  Mazarin,  "and  not 
yet  finished;  fresh  works  coming  in  daily.  A  great 
trial — but  I  must  think  of  my  soul.  Go  now,  Gue- 
naud; come  again  to-morrow.  Perhaps — who  knows] 
— you  may  see  some  change,  some  improvement — who 
knows  1" 

Guenaud  shakes  his  head  silently,  and  withdraws. 

Meanwhile  the  Queen-mother,  Anne  of  Austria, 
informed  of  Mazarin's  desperate  condition,  hastens  to 
visit  him.  She  is  attended  by  her  gossiping  ladies,  ,. 
eager  to  catch  every  word,  and  with  nods  and  winks, 
and  sighs  of  affected  sympathy — to  comment  on  her 
sorrowful  expression. 

Her  Majesty  is  pale  and  sad;  tears  gather  in  her 
eyes  as  she  advances  towards  the  bed  on  which  Ma- 
zarin lies,  and  she  asks  with  a  timid  yet  tender  voice 
after  his  health.  He  replies  that  he  is  very  ill,  and 
repeats  to  her  what  Guenaud  had  told  him.  If  I  were 
to  add  that  he  displayed  to  the  Queen  and  her  ladies 
one  of  his  bare  legs,  to  afford  ocular  demonstration  of 
his  reduced  condition,  I  fear  I  should  be  accused  of 


MAZARIN   PLAYED   OUT.  I4I 

imitating  the  mauvaise  langue  of  Madame  de  Noailles. 
But  he  really  did  so,  to  the  great  grief  of  Anne  of 
Austria,  and  to  the  utter  discomfiture  and  horror  of 
her  less  sympathizing  ladies  in  waiting,  who  rapidly 
retreat  into  the  recesses  of  the  windows,  or  behind  the 
draperies  of  the  apartment,  to  escape  so  unpleasant  a 
spectacle. 

"Look!"  exclaims  Mazarin,  thrusting  forward  his 
leg — "look,  Madame,  at  the  deplorable  condition  to 
which  I  am  reduced  by  my  incessant  anxiety  for  the 
welfare  of  France!  And  to  leave  my  pictures  too, — 
my  statues.     Ah,  Madame,  it  is  a  bitter  trial!'' 

Soon  after  this  extraordinary  interview,  and  when 
all  the  world  believed  Mazarin  to  be  dead  or  dying, 
the  cunning  Italian,  determined  once  more  to  dupe 
the  whole  Court,  and  deceitful  in  his  death  as  he  had 
been  in  his  life,  gave  orders  that  his  convalescence 
should  be  announced.  He  caused  himself  to  be  painted 
white  and  red,  dressed  in  his  Cardinal's  purple  robes, 
and  placed  in  a  sedan  chair  with  all  the  glasses  down. 
Thus  he  was  wheeled  along  the  broad  terraces  of  his 
garden,  taking  care  to  be  well  observed  by  the  vast 
crowd  collected  by  the  news  of  his  recovery.  For  a 
moment  he  presented  the  appearance  of  health  and 
vigour.  But  the  effort  he  had  forced  himself  to  make, 
in  order  to  enact  this  ghastly  comedy,  was  too  much 
for  his  remaining  strength.  He  swooned  in  his  sedan 
chair,  and  was  brought  back  and  placed  on  his  bed, 
never  to  rise  again.  Thus  died  as  he  had  lived,  Car- 
dinal Mazarin,  a  dissembler  and  a  hypocrite;  but  a 
great  minister.  Nqt  cruel  or  bloodthirsty,  like  Richelieu, 
though  equally  unscrupulous,  Mazarin  gained  the  end 
he   had   in  view   by  patience,  cunning,  and  intrigue 


142  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

At  his  death  he  left  France,  already  exhausted  by  the 
wars  of  the  Fronde,  completely  subdued;  and  in  such 
a  state  of  abject  submission  to  the  throne,  as  paved  the 
way  to  the  extravagance  and  oppression  of  Louis  XIV.'s 
reign. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

Louise  de  la  Valliere. 

The  young  King  Louis  XIV.  was  active,  vigorous, 
and  graceful.  He  excelled  in  outward  accomplish- 
ments, in  riding,  dancing,  and  fencing;  but  intellectually 
he  was  both  idle  and  ignorant.  His  education  had 
been  purposely  neglected  by  Cardinal  Mazarin;  and 
he  was  so  fully  aware  of  it,  that  he  carefully  avoided 
displaying  his  ignorance  by  a  too  facile  or  rapid  ad- 
dress. Even  in  youth  he  was  grave  and  ceremonious; 
in  later  years  he  became  pompous  and  overbearing. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  refinement  of  his  mother's 
nature  was  reproduced  in  the  son  of  her  love.  He 
was  brought  up  by  her  side  in  a  circle  as  elegant  and 
refined  as  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet  in  its  palmiest 
days.  He  never  forgot  the  lesson  he  then  learnt,  that 
the  outward  proprieties  of  life  must  be  studiously  ob- 
served, whatever  freedoms  may  be  permitted  in  private. 
He  desired  all  his  life  to  be  considered  pious,  just, 
and  moral.  He  failed  in  each,  for  his  passions  were 
strong  and  his  temper  was  imperious.  The  vicissi- 
tudes of  his  early  life  during  the  civil  wars  of  the 
Fronde,  when  he  was  often  obliged  to,  fly  at  a  moment's 
notice  from  place  to  place,  gave  him,  however,  a  power 
of  assuming  calmness  and   dignity  under  all   circum- 


LOUISE  DE  LA   VALLIERE.  I  43 

Stances,  which  he  could  never  have  acquired  in  less 
eventful  times. 

Above  all  sovereigns  Louis  understood  the  art  of 
reigning,  of  appearing  to  be  a  great  king  when  he  was 
really  but  a  shallow,  vain,  irresolute  man,  extraordinarily 
accessible  to  flattery.  Yet  that  a  son  of  Louis  Xni. 
should  say  with  truth,  "ZV/o/  c'est  moi"  and  dare  to 
drive  out  the  national  Parliament  solemnly  assembled 
in  the  legislative  chamber,  whip  in  hand,  is  one  of  the 
most  striking  anomalies  in  history. 

In  person  Louis  resembled  his  father.  He  was 
dark,  broad  shouldered,  and  rather  short,  with  regular 
features  and  a  prominent  nose.  But  he  had  all  the 
fire  of  his  mother's  Spanish  eyes,  and  withal  the  grandest 
manners  and  the  most  royal  presence  ever  seen.  From 
a  boy  he  was  an  ardent  admirer  of  the  fair.  All  his 
life  he  continued  to  be  secretly  ruled  by  female  in- 
fluence. Indeed,  his  long  reign  may  be  divided  into 
three  periods,  corresponding  with  the  characteristics 
of  the  three  women  who  successively  possessed  all  the 
love  he  could  spare  from  himself.  He  was  gentle, 
humane,  and  domestic  with  La  Vallii^re;  arrogant, 
heartless,  and  warlike  with  De  Montespan;  selfish, 
bigoted,  and  cruel,  with  De  Maintenon. 

His  boyish  philandering  with  the  handsome  nieces 
of  Cardinal  Mazarin  has  been  already  noticed.  What 
subtle  plans  developed  themselves  in  the  brain  of  that 
unscrupulous  schemer  never  can  be  known;  but  he 
could  not  have  arranged  matters  better  to  place  one 
of  his  nieces  on  the  throne  of  France.  Nor  to  his 
Italian  notions  would  this  have  been  extraordinary. 
Mazarin  would   have  argued   that   a  Mancini   was   as 


144  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

well  born  as  a  Medici,  whose  arms  were  a  pill,   and 
that  Martinozzi  was  as  ancient  a  name  as  Bourbon. 

Anne  of  Austria  looked  on  with  displeasure. 
Mazarin  wore  an  imperturbable  front,  a  sphinx-look, 
ready  to  answer  either  way,  as  circumstances  might 
prompt.  By  the  time  that  Maria  Mancini  came  from 
Rome,  Louis's  passions  were  thoroughly  roused.  The 
young  lion  had  tasted  blood,  and  found  it  pleasant  to 
his  palate.  Maria  was  far  less  beautiful  than  her 
sisters, — indeed,  that  bitter-tongued  chronicler,  Bussy 
Rabutin,  calls  her  "ugly,  fat,  and  short,  with  the  air 
of  a  soiihrette;"  but  she  had  the  temper  of  an  angel, 
and  seemed  to  the  boyish  Louis  a  soft,  plaintive, 
clinging  creature,  who  appealed  to  his  pity.  In  reality 
she  had  a  force  of  character  ten  times  greater  than 
his  own,  and  the  courage  of  a  heroine. 

In  Maria  Mancini,  Mazarin  made  his  great  move 
in  the  matrimonial  game.  Louis  gave  signs  of  a  serious 
attachment.  Anne  of  Austria  set  a  watch  upon  him. 
It  was  needful.  Louis  had  a  temperament  of  fire, 
Maria  was  born  under  an  Italian  sky.  Nothwithstand- 
ing  the  watch  set  Louis  found  opportunity  to  promise 
marriage  to  Maria.  He  repeated  this  promise  with 
protestations  and  oaths,  but,  cautious  even  in  his  youth, 
he  did  not,  like  his  grandfather  Henry  IV.,  commit  it 
to  writing. 

Mazarin,  informed  by  his  niece  of  what  had  passed, 
opined  that  the  time  to  speak  had  come.  He  ventured 
to  sound  the  Queen-mother.  He  spoke  of  the  charms 
of  genuine  attachment,  the  happiness  of  domestic  life 
on  a  throne;  he  hinted  at  the  Queen's  own  unhappy 
career,  sacrificed  as  she  had  been  to  a  political  alliance. 
He    enlarged    on    the   antiquity   of   the    Latin    races, 


LOUISE  DE  LA  VALLIERE.  1 45 

specially,  those  of  Rome  and  Sicily,,  "all  of  them,"  he 
said,  "once  reigning  houses,  and  poverty,"  he  added, 
"did  not  make  blue  blood  red." 

The  Queen,  however  subservient  to  the  Cardinal 
on  all  other  matters,  flared  out — "If  ever  my  son  con- 
descends to  marry  your  niece,"  cried  she,  "I  will  disown 
him.  I  will  place  myself,  with  his  brother,  Phihp  of 
Orleans,  at  the  head  of  the  nation,  and  fight  against 
him  and  you,  Cardinal  Mazarin." 

The  Cardinal  had  many  consolations;  he  "was  fain 
to  yield.  Maria  was  sent  to  a  convent.  Poor  Maria 
— to  go  to  Brouage  instead  of  sitting  on  a  throne!  It 
was  very  hard.  Louis  was  in  despair.  When  they  met 
to  say  adieu,  he  wept. 

"What,  Sire!"  she  exclaimed;  "you  love  me — you 
weep — and  we  part?"  and  she  turned  her  liquid  eyes 
upon  him  with  a  look  of  passionate  entreaty. 

Perhaps  the  tears  in  the  King's  eyes  blinded  him, 
or  he  did  not  hear  her;  at  all  events,  he  heeded  neither 
her  look  nor  her  inuendo,  and  she  went. 

Then  those  marriage  bells  sounded  from  over  the 
frontier  of  which  we  have  spoken.  The  King  espoused 
the  Infanta  of  Spain,   and  Maria  Mancini  became  La 

Principessa  Colonna,  and  lived  at  Naples. 

****** 

The  Court  is  at  Saint-Germain.  Louis  XIV.  was 
bom  there,  and  until  Versailles  and  Marly  were  built, 
he  made  it  his  principal  residence.  In  one  of  the 
principal  saloons,  on  the  first  floor,  lying  midway  be- 
tween the  turreted  angles  of  the  facade,  looking  over 
the  plain  towards  Paris,  Louis  XIII.  had  ended  his  miser- 
able existence,  his  private  band  playing  a  "De  Pro- 
fundis,"  of  his  own  composition,  during  his  death  throes. 

Old  Court  Life  in  France     11.  lO 


146  OLD   COURT  LIJE  IN  FRANCE. 

His  morbid  nature — reproduced  in  his  descendant, 
Louis  XV.,  who  said  he  loved  "the  scent  of  newly 
made  graves" — made  him  await  the  approach  of  death 
with  a  sort  of  grim  curiosity.  As  he  lay  on  his  bed, 
opposite  the  windows,  his  dim  eyes  resting  on  the  wide 
expanse  outstretched  below,  he  called  Laporte  to  him. 
He  was  so  near  his  end  that  he  articulated  with  diffi- 
culty. "Remember,  my  good  Laporte,"  he  gasped, 
"that  place,  below  there  where  the  road  turns  under 
that  rise," — and  he  raised  his  shrunken  finger,  and 
pointed  to  a  particular  spot,  on  the  road  to  Saint- 
Denis,  along  which  his  funeral  procession  must  pass 
to  reach  the  tombs  of  his  ancestors — "that  place  there. 
It  has  been  newly  gravelled,  Laporte.  It  is  rough,  and 
will  shake  me.  Let  the  driver  go  gently  over  the 
loose  stones.     Be  sure  to  tell  him  I  said  so." 

This  was  not  like  his  son,  Louis  XIV.,  who  came 
to  detest  Saint-Germain  because  this  very  Cathedral 
of  Saint-Denis,  where  he  must  be  buried,  was  visible 
on  the  horizon  line.  Such  an  object  did  not  suit  a 
monarch  who  desired  to  be  thought  immortal. 

The  Court  is  at  Saint-Germain.  It  is  a  cool,  deli- 
cious evening,  after  a  day  of  unusual  heat.  The 
summer  evenings  are  always  charming  at  Saint-Ger- 
main, by  reason  of  the  bowery  freshness  of  the  adja- 
cent forest,  from  which  cool  breezes  come  rippling 
through  the  air,  and  fan  the  heated  atmosphere.  The 
sombre  chateau  is  now  a  mass  of  deep  shadow,  save 
where  the  setting  sun  lights  up  some  detail  of  its 
outline — an  arched  window,  a  rich  cornice,  a  pillared 
portico,  or  a  pointed  tower,  which  stand  out  against 
the  western  sky  with  fugitive  brightness.  The  parterre 
blazes   with   summer   flowers,    the    perfume   of  which 


LOUISE  DE  LA  VALLIERE.  147 

creeps  upwards  in  the  rising  dews  of  evening.  The 
formal  gravel  walks  are  bordered  by  statues  and  orange- 
trees;  the  splashing  of  many  fountains  stirs  the  air. 
A  flock  of  peacocks  strut  on  the  greensward,  their  long 
tails  catching  the  last  rays  of  the  sunset.  The  summer 
birds  make  delicate  music  among  the  shrubberies;  and 
the  giant  elms,  in  the  outer  park,  divided  from  the 
garden  by  an  open  iron  railing,  bow  their  rounded 
heads  to  the  breeze. 

When  the  sun  has  set,  a  merry  party,  consisting 
of  four  of  the  maids  of  honour,  leave  the  chateau  by 
a  side  door.  They  run  swiftly  along  the  terrace, — 
frightening  the  peacocks,  who  drop  their  tails  and  fly 
screeching  into  the  trees, — and  ensconce  themselves  in 
a  trellised  arbour,  garlanded  with  honeysuckles  and 
roses,  hid  in  a  thicket  of  flowering  shrubs  skirting  one 
side  of  the  parterre.  Once  there,  their  tongues  are 
let  loose  like  so  many  cherry-clappers. 

It  was  so  nearly  dark  that  the  maids  of  honour  did 
not  notice  the  King  as  they  scudded  along  the  garden, 
who,  attended  by  the  mischief-loving  Comte  de  Lauzun, 
had  also  stolen  out  to  enjoy  the  evening.  Louis 
watched  them  as  they  ran,  and  then,  hearing  their 
voices  in  such  eager  talk,  was  seized  with  an  intense 
desire  to  know  who  they  were,  and  what  they  were 
saying.  He  dare  not  speak,  for  they  would  hear  him, 
and  perhaps  recognise  his  voice.  Signing  to  his  con- 
fidant Lauzun  to  follow  him,  he  softly  approached  the 
arbour  in  which  the  four  girls  are  hid. 

He  finds  that  they  are  all  talking  about  a  fancy 
ball  given  the  night  before  by  Madame  Henriette, 
Duchesse  d'Orleans,  his  brother's  wife;  and  particu- 
larly about  a  ballet  in  which  he  himself  had  danced- 


148  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

The  King  and  Lauzun,  favoured  by  the  increasing 
darkness  of  the  night,  and  well  entrenched  behind  the 
shrubs,  lose  not  a  syllable. 

The  question  is,  which  dancer  was  the  handsomest 
and  the  most  graceful?  Each  pretty  lady  has,  of 
course,  her  own  predilection.  One  declares  for  the 
Marquis  d'Alen^on,  another  will  not  hear  of  any  com- 
parison with  M.  de  Vardes,  a  third  stoutly  maintains 
that  the  Comte  de  Guiche  was  by  far  the  handsomest 
man  there  and  everywhere  else  (an  opinion  which, 
par  parenihise,  Madame  herself  takes  every  opportu- 
nity of  showing  she  endorses,  displaying,  moreover, 
this  opinion  somewhat  too  openly,  notwithstanding 
her  designs  on  the  heart  of  the  King  himself,  whom 
she  fancies,  and  others  declare,  is,  or  has  been,  her 
admirer).  The  fourth  damsel  is  silent.  Called  upon 
to  give  her  opinion,  she  speaks.  In  the  sweetest  and 
gentlest  of  voices  she  thus  expresses  herself: — 

"I  cannot  imagine  how  any  one  could  have  been 
■even  noticed  when  the  King  was  present.  He  is  quite 
fascinating." 

"Ah,  then,  mademoiselle,  you  declare  for  the  King. 
What  will  Madame  say  to  you?" 

"No,  it  is  not  the  King  nor  the  crowTi  he  wears 
that  I  declare  for;  it  is  not  his  rank  that  makes  him 
so  charming:  on  the  contrary,  to  me  it  is  rather  a 
defect.  If  he  were  not  the  King  I  should  positively 
dread    him.      His    position    is    my    best    safeguard. 

However "    And  La  Valli^re  drops  her  head  on 

Tier  bosom  and  falls  into  a  deep  reverie. 

On  hearing  these  words  the  King  is  strangely 
affected,  he  whispers  to  Lauzun  not  to  mention  their 
adventure;  they  retire  silently  as  they  came,   and  re- 


LOUISE  DE  LA   VALLIERE.  1 49 

enter  the  chateau.  The  King  is  in  a  dilemma.  If  he 
could  only  discover  who  this  fair  damsel  is  who  prefers 
him  to  all  others  with  such  naivete — who  admires  him 
for  himself  alone,  and  not  for  his  rank — a  preference 
as  flattering  as  it  is  rarely  the  lot  of  a  monarch  to 
discover!  All  he  knows  is  that  it  must  be  one  of  the 
maids  of  honour  attached  to  the  service  of  Madame 
Henriette,  his  sister-in-law,  and  he  cannot  sleep  all 
night,  he  is  so  haunted  with  the  melting  tones  of  her 
voice,  and  so  anxious  to  discover  to  whom  it  belongs. 

In  the  morning,  as  soon  as  etiquette  allowed  of 
his  appearing,  Louis  hurries  off  to  the  toilette  of  Ma- 
dame, whom  he  finds  seated  before  a  mirror  of  the 
rarest  Dresden  china,  looped  up  with  lace  and  rib- 
bons, her  face  and  shoulders  covered  with  her  long 
brown  hair. 

"Your  Majesty  honours  me  with  an  early  visit," 
says  she,  colouring  with  pleasure  as  he  enters.  "What 
plans  have  you  arranged  for  the  hunt  to-day?  When 
are  we  to  start?" 

Louis,  with  his  usual  politeness — shown,  be  it  re- 
corded to  his  credit,  towards  any  woman,  whatever 
might  be  her  degree — gallantly  replies  that  it  is  for 
her  to  command  and  for  him  to  obey.  But  there  the 
conversation  drops,  and  the  Duchess  observes  that  he 
is  absent  and  preoccupied.  This  both  chagrins  and 
disappoints  her.  Piqued  at  his  want  of  empressement, 
she  turns  from  him  abruptly  and  begins  conversing 
with  the  Comte  de  Guiche,  who  with  ill- disguised 
uneasiness  had  stood  aloof  watching  her  warm  recep- 
tion of  his  Majesty. 

Henriette,  the  royal  daughter  of  the  Stuarts  and 
the  Bourbons,  without  being  positively  handsome,  has 


150  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

the  air  of  a  great  princess.  The  freshness  of  her 
complexion  is,  however,  all  that  is  English  about  her. 
Her  forehead,  high  and  broad,  but  too  much  developed 
for  beauty,  gives  a  certain  grandeur  to  her  expression; 
her  eyes  are  sparkling,  but  placed  too  near  together. 
Still  her  face  is  intelligent  and  lively.  She  is  tall,  slim, 
and  very  graceful.  Around  her  long  neck,  on  which 
her  small  head  is  admirably  set,  is  bound  a  single 
string  of  fine  orient  pearls,  and  a  mantle  and  train  of 
turquoise  yaz7/,?  fall  back  from  a  flounced  petticoat  of 
yellow  satin. 

V/hile  Madame  Henriette  talks  with  the  Comte 
de  Guiche,  Louis  is  at  liberty  to  use  his  eyes  as  he 
chooses,  and  he  hastily  surveys  the  group  of  lovely 
girls  that  stand  behind  the  Princess's  chair.  One 
placed  a  little  apart  from  the  rest  rivets  his  attention. 
Her  pale  and  somewhat  melancholy  countenance  im- 
parts an  indescribable  air  of  languor  to  her  appearance, 
and  the  graceful  tournure  of  her  head  and  neck  are 
admirable. 

"Can  this  be  she?"  he  asks  himself.  He  hopes 
— he  fears  (he  was  young  then,  Louis,  and  not  the 
blasS  debaucU  he  afterwards  became) — he  actually 
trembles  with  emotion,  suspense,  and  impatience. 
But  determined  to  ascertain  the  truth,  and  regardless 
of  the  furious  glances  cast  at  him  by  Madame, — who 
evidently  neither  likes  nor  understands  his  wandering 
looks,  directed  evidently  to  her  ladies,  and  his  total 
want  of  empressement  towards  herself, — he  approaches 
the  fair  group  and  begins  conversing  with  them, 
certain  that  if  that  same  soft  voice  is  heard  that  liad 
never  ceased  to  echo  in  his  ears,  he  shall  at  once 
recognise  it.     He   speaks   to   Mademoiselle   de  Saint- 


LOUISE   DE  LA   VALLIERE.  I5I 

Aignan,  but  his  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  pale  face  of  La 
Valli^re,  for  she  it  was  whom  he  so  much  admired. 
La  ValH^re  casts  down  her  eyes  and  blushes. 

The  King  advances  towards  her  and  addresses 
her.  He  awaits  her  reply  with  indescribable  anxiety. 
She  trembles,  grows  still  more  pale,  then  blushes 
crimson,  and  finally  answers  in  a  voice  tremulous 
with  timidity;  but  it  was  the  voice!  He  has  found  her. 
This,  then,  is  the  unknown,  and  she  loves  him;  her 
own  lips  confessed  it.  Delightful!  He  leaves  the 
apartments  of  Madame  abruptly  in  speechless  ecstasy. 

From  that  day  he  sees,  he  lives  only  for  La 
Valli^re.  Ever  in  the  apartments  of  his  sister-in-law, 
it  was  evident  even  to  her  that  he  did  not  come  to 
seek  her,  and  her  rage  knew  no  bounds.  She  had 
hitherto  had  ample  reason  to  believe  that  the  attach- 
ment the  King  felt  for  her  somewhat  exceeded  that 
of  a  brother.  With  the  spiteful  penetration  of  a 
jealous  woman,  she  now  discovers  how  often  the  eyes 
of  Louis  are  fixed  with  admiration  on  the  timid, 
downcast  La  Valli^re.  She  is  not,  therefore,  long  in 
guessing  the  object  of  his  preference,  and  the  cause 
of  his  frequent  visits  to  her  apartments.  From  this 
moment  she  hates  poor  Louise,  and  determines,  if 
possible,  to  ruin  her. 

The  King  on  his  part,  unconscious  of  the  storm 
he  was  raising  about  La  Valli^re,  is  enchanted  not 
only  with  herself,  but  with  all  he  hears  of  her  charac- 
ter. She  is  beloved  by  every  one;  her  goodness, 
sweetness,  and  sincerity  are  universally  acknowledged, 
and  the  account  of  her  various  good  quaHties  tend  to 
enhance  her  merit. 

When   the  Court   returns   to  Saint-Germain  (now, 


152  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

can  one  fancy  romance  within  those  dingy  walls? — 
but  so  it  was),  Louis  is  desperately,  head  and  ears 
over,  in  love.  A  party  of  pleasure  is  arranged  to 
take  place  in  the  forest  under  a  tent  formed  of 
boughs,  tapestry,  and  flowers.  The  ladies  invited  to 
this  sylvan  retreat  are  habited  as  shepherdesses  and 
peasants.  They  form  charming  groups,  like  Sevres 
china.  On  their  arrival  the  most  delicious  music  is 
heard  from  the  recesses  of  the  leafy  woods,  which  as 
it  plays  at  intervals,  now  here,  now  there,  among  the 
trees,  is  the  signal  for  the  appearance  of  various 
groups  of  satyrs,  fauns,  and  dryads,  who  after  danc- 
ing grotesque  figure-dances,  and  singing  verses  in 
honour  of  the  King,  disappear,  to  be  quickly  replaced 
by  another  troupe.  These  present  flowers,  and  also 
sing  and  dance  as  no  dryads  or  fauns  had  ever 
dreamed  of  in  classic  bowers,  but  in  a  style  quite 
peculiar  to  the  age  and  taste  of  le  Grand  Monarque, 
who  liked  even  nature  itself  to  appear  as  artificial  and 
formal  as  he  was  himself.  This  agreeable  fete  has 
lasted  all  day,  and  the  company  is  about  to  return, 
when,  conceive  the  alarm — a  violent  storm  comes  on, 
thunder  rolls,  the  sky  is  suddenly  overcast,  and  a 
heavy  rain,  enough  to  drench  the  whole  Court  to  the 
skin,  descends  with  remorseless  violence.  How  every 
one  scudds  hither  and  thither!  The  thickest  trees  are 
eagerly  seized  on  as  a  slight  protection  against  the 
storm.  Others  hide  themselves  in  the  bushes,  some 
penetrate  deeper  into  the  cover  of  the  copse  wood. 
Spite  of  the  rain,  and  the  destruction  of  the  dresses, 
the  ladies  come  to  vote  it  rather  an  agreeable  incident 
on  the  whole,  when  they  find  their  favourite  cavaliers 
beside  them,  placed,  perchance,  somewhat  nearer  than 


LOUISE  DE   LA   VALLIERE.  1 53 

would  have  been  comme  il  faut  in  the  Court  circle. 
For  although  the  ladies  might  really  at  first  have  been 
a  little  terrified,  the  gentlemen  are  certainly  not  likely 
to  be  troubled  with  any  nervousness  on  account  of  a 
thunderstorm,  and  preserve  sufficient  sang-froid  each 
to  select  his  lady-love  in  order  to  protect  her  from 
the  weather.  Thus  it  chanced  that  Madame  Henriette 
finds  herself  under  the  care  of  the  Comte  de  Guiche; 
the  fair  Mancini,  once  beloved  by  the  King,  now 
Comtesse  de  Soissons,  is  under  the  protection  of  her 
dear  De  Vardes;  and  Mademoiselle  d'Orleans — la 
Grande  Mademoiselle — is  completely  happy,  and  forgets 
the  thunder,  rain,  and,  more  wonderful  still,  her  own 
dignity,  at  finding  herself  escorted  by  Lauzun! 

The  King,  nowise  behind  his  courtiers  in  gal- 
lantry, at  once  offers  his  escort  and  his  arm  to  sup- 
port La  Valli^re,  who,  naturally  timid,  is  really 
frightened,  and  clings  to  him  with  a  helplessness  that 
enchants  him.  All  the  world  knows  she  is  a  little 
lame,  a  defect  which  was  said  in  her  to  be  almost  a 
grace.  Now  she  does  not  perhaps  regret  that  this  in- 
firmity prevents  her  running  as  quickly  as  the  rest,  and 
thus  prolonging  the  precious  moments  passed  alone 
with  the  King.  Louis  places  her  under  a  tree,  where 
they  are  both  protected  from  the  rain  and  are 
shrouded  by  the  thick  boughs  which  hang  low  and 
fringe  the  grass. 

The  King  seizes  on  this  happy  opportunity  to  de- 
clare" his  passion,  and  to  whisper  to  La  Valli^re  the 
love  she  has  inspired  ever  since  that  evening,  when 
he  had  overheard  her.  Poor  Louise!  She  had  never 
dared  to  imagine  that  her  love  was  returned,  and  she 
well-nigh   faints   as    the   King    proceeds.      Her    heart 


154  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

beats  so  violently  it  is  almost  audible.  She  is 
actually  on  the  point  of  rushing  from  under  the  tree, 
when  the  King  lays  hold  of  her  hand,  and  retains 
her. 

"What!"  cries  he,  "do  you  fear  me  more  than  the 
storm?  What  have  I  done  to  frighten  you?  you  whom 
I  love,  whom  I  adore!  Why  do  you  hate  me?  Speak, 
I  implore  you,  Louise." 

"Oh,  Sire!  do  not  say  hate.  I  revere  you — I  love 
you — as  my  King,  but — - — " 

"Sweet  girl,  I  breathe  again.  But  why  only 
love  me  as  your  Sovereign — I,  who  cherish  your 
every  look,  who  seek  only  to  be  your  servant — your 
slave?" 

Saying  this,  Louis  falls  on  his  knees  upon  the 
grass;  he  seizes  her  hands,  which  he  covers  with 
kisses;  he  swears  he  will  never  rise  until  she  has  pro- 
mised to  love  him,  and  to  pardon  the  terror  his  de- 
claration has  caused  her. 

Mademoiselle  de  la  Valli^re  cannot  control  her 
emotion.     She  implores  him  to  rise. 

"You  are  my  King,"  she  says,  "the  husband  of 
the  Queen.  My  royal  master,  I  am  your  faithful  sub- 
ject.    Can  I  say  more?" 

"Yes,  dearest,  promise  me  your  love.  Give  me 
your  heart;  that  is  the  possession  I  desire,"  murmurs 
Louis. 

Pressed  by  the  King  to  grant  him  some  mark  of 
her  favoiu:.  La  Valli^re  becomes  so  confused  she  can- 
not reply.  Louis  grows  more  and  more  pressing,  in- 
terpreting her  emotion  as  favourable  to  his  suit.  In 
the  midst  of  the  tenderest  entreaties  the  thunder  again 
bursts  forth,   and  poor  Louise,   overcome  at  once  by 


LOUISE  DE  LA  VALUERE.  155 

fear,  love,  and  remorse,  swoons  away.  The  King  na- 
turally receives  the  precious  burden  in  his  arms.  He 
seeks  hastily  to  rejoin  the  other  fugitives  and  his  at- 
tendants, in  order  to  obtain  assistance.  Ever  and  anon 
he  stops  in  the  openings  of  the  forest  to  gaze  at  her, 
as  she  lies  calm  and  lovely  in  repose,  her  long  eye- 
lashes sweeping  her  delicate  cheeks,  h^r  half-closed 
lips  revealing  the  prettiest,  and  whitest  teeth.  I  leave 
my  readers  to  imagine  if  Louis  did  not  imprint  a  few 
kisses  on  the  fainting  beauty  he  bears  so  carefully  in 
his  arms,  and  if  now  and  then  he  did  not  press  her 
closer  to  his  breast.  If  in  this  he  did  take  advantage 
of  the  situation  chance  had  afforded  him,  he  must 
be  forgiven;  he  was  young,  and  he  was  deeply  in 
love. 

Words  cannot  describe  the  surprise  felt  by  La 
Valli^re  on  recovering  to  find  herself  alone,  borne 
along  in  the  King's  arms,  in  the  midst  of  a  lonely 
forest.  History  does  not,  however,  record  that  she 
died  of  terror,' or  that  she  even  screamed.  The  re- 
spectful behaviour  of  the  King  doubtless  reassured 
her. 

The  moment  she  opens  her  sweet  blue  eyes  he 
stops,  places  her  on  the  ground,  and  supports  her.  He 
assures  her  that  being  then  near  the  edge  of  the  forest, 
and  not  far  distant  from  the  chateau,  they  are  sure  to 
meet  some  of  his  attendants.  Louise  blushes,  then 
grows  pale,  then  blushes  again,  as  the  recollection  of 
all  the  King  had  said  to  her  while  under  tlie  shade  of 
the  greenwood  gradually  returns  to  her  remembrance. 
She  reads  the  confirmation  of  it  in  his  eyes.  Those 
eyes  are  fixed  on  her  with  passionate  ardour.  Dis- 
engaging herself  from  his  arras,  she  thanks  him,  in  a 


156  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

faltering  voice,  for  his  care  a  thousand  times — for  his 
condescension.  She  is  so  sorry.  It  was  so  foolish  to 
faint;    but    the    thunder — his   Majesty's    goodness    to 

her .     Here  she  pauses  abruptly;  her  conscience 

tells  her  she  ought  at  once  to  reject  his  suit;  her  lips 
cannot  form  the  words. 

While  she  is  speaking,  a  group  of  horsemen  are 
visible  in  the  distance,  at  the  end  of  one  of  those 
long  woodland  glades  which  divide  the  forest.  On 
hearing  the  voice  of  the  King,  who  calls  to  them, 
they  gallop  rapidly  towards  him.  The  King  and  La 
Valli^re  reach  the  chateau  shortly  after  the  other 
ladies,  none  of  whom,  as  it  appeared,  had  been  in 
haste  to  return. 

From  this  moment  La  Valli^re's  fate  is  sealed. 
Long  she  had  loved  and  admired  the  King  in  secret; 
but  until  she  learnt  how  warmly  he  returned  this 
feeling  she  was  scarcely  aware  how  completely  he  had 
enthralled  her.  The  ecstasy  this  certainty  gave  her 
first  fully  revealed  to  her  the  real  danger  of  her  situa- 
tion. Poor  Louise!  Is  it  wonderful  that,  as  the  scene 
of  this  first  and  passionate  declaration,  she  should 
love  the  old  Chateau  of  Saint-Germain  more  than  any 
other  spot  in  the  world? — that  when  suffering,  the  air 
restored  her?  when  unhappy  (and  she  lived  to  be  so 
unhappy),  the  sight  of  the  forest,  of  the  terrace,  re- 
vived her  by  tender  reminiscences  of  the  past? 

When  the  secret  of  Louis's  attachment  to  La 
Valji^re  transpired  (which,  after  the  scene  in  the  forest 
was  very  speedily),  nothing  could  exceed  the  indigna- 
tion of  the  whole  circle,  who  each  conceived  that  they 
had  some  especial  cause  of  complaint. 

Louis's  old  love,  the  Comtesse  de  Soissons  (Man- 


LOUISE  DE   LA  VALLIERE.  I57 

cini),  with  the  thirst  for  practical  revenge,  bred  in  her 
hot  Italian  blood,  held  council  with  De  Vardes  and 
De  Guiche,  how  to  crush  her,  whom  she  styled  "the 
common  enemy."  A  letter  was  planned  and  written 
by  the  Countess  in  Spanish,  addressed  to  the  Queen, 
purporting  to  come  from  the  King  of  Spain.  This 
letter  detailed  every  particular  of  her  husband's  liaison 
with  La  Valliere.  The  bad  spelling  and  foreign 
idioms,  however,  betrayed  it  to  be  a  forgery. 

The  letter  was  placed  on  the  Queen's  bed  by  the 
Comtesse  de  Soissons  herself  Instead  of  falling  into 
the  Queen's  hands,  as  was  intended,  it  was  found 
by  De  Molena,  Maria  Theresa's  Spanish  nurse.  She 
carried  it  straight  to  the  King.  He  traced  it  to 
Madame  de  Soissons.     She  was  banished. 

Madame  Henriette  d'Orleans  was  more  noisy  and 
abusive  than  any  one.  Her  vanity  was  hurt.  Her 
feelings  were  outraged  at  the  notion  that  the  King, 
heretofore  her  admirer,  should  forsake  her  openly  for 
one  of  her  own  women!     It  was  too  insulting. 

"What!"  cried  she  in  her  rage,  "prefer  an  ugly, 
limping  fillette  to  me^  the  daughter  of  a  king?  I  am 
as  superior  in  beauty  to  that  little  minx  as  I  am  in 
birth!  Dieu!  quil  manque  de  gout  et  de  dilicatesse !" 
Without  even  taking  leave  of  Louis  she  shut  herself 
up  at  Saint-Cloud,  where  she  made  the  very  walls 
ring  with  her  complaints. 

The  poor,  quiet  little  Queen,  the  only  really  in- 
jured person,  wept  and  mourned  in  private.  She  was 
far  too  much  afraid  of  that  living  Jupiter  Tonans,  her 
husband,  to  venture  on  any  personal  reproaches.  She 
consoled  herself  by  soundly  abusing  La  Valliere  in 
epithets  much  more  expressive  than  polite. 


158  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

In  this  abuse  she  was  joined  by  Anne  of  Austria, 
who,  in  her  present  austere  frame  of  mind,  was  the 
last  person  in  France  to  spare  La  Valliere. 

An  explanation  v/as  decidedly  needful. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

The  Convent  of  Chaillot. 

Mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere  is  summoned  to 
the  presence  of  the  Queen-mother.  She  is  sitting  in 
the  Grey  Chamber,  next  to  her  oratory.  Louise  is 
aware  that  Anne  of  Austria  never  gives  audiences  in 
the  Grey  Chamber  except  on  the  most  serious  oc- 
casions. The  Queen-mother  wears  a  dark  dress,  -in 
cut  and  shape  like  the  robe  of  a  nun;  her  grey  hair 
is  gathered  into  a  head-dress  of  white  lace,  and  she 
carries  a  rosary  at  her  side.  She  looks  old  and  sad; 
her  stately  form  is  bent,  her  face  is  thin,  her  features 
are  drawn,  and  wrinkles  obscure  her  once  brilliant 
eyes. 

The  Duchesse  d'Orleans  is  seated  by  her  side. 
Louise  enters.  She  dares  not  advance  beyond  the 
door.  Standing  there  she  makes  deep  obeisances  to 
the  Queen-mother  and  to  Madame  Henriette.  She 
blushes  scarlet,  then  turns  pale.  Her  head  drops 
on  her  bosom;  as  she  stands  before  them  she  feels 
more  dead  than  alive. 

"I  see  you  are  there.  Mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere," 
says  the  Queen,  frowning.  "I  wish  to  speak  to  you 
in  the  presence  of  your  late  mistress,  Madame  Hen- 
riette de  France,  my  daughter-in-law.  You  are  aware 
why  we  have  sent  for  youl" 


THE  CONVENT  OF  CHAILLOT^  159 

"No,  Madame,"  answers  the  maid  of  honour  faintly^ 
"but  I  humbly  await  your  orders." 

"What  affected  humility!"  exclaims  Madame  Hen- 
riette  with  a  sneer.  "You  act  uncommonly  well, 
petite  r 

"All  the  better  if  she  be  humble,  my  daughter," 
rejoins  the  Queen-mother,  speaking  of  La  Valliere 
as  if  she  were  not  present — "all  the  better.  It  is 
some  step  towards  repentance  that  she  is  conscious 
of  her  crime.  It  will  save  us  the  trouble  of  insisting 
on  it.  Pray  to  God,  mademoiselle,  to  pardon  you; 
you  have  no  hope  but  in  heaven."  And  she  casts  a 
stem  glance  at  her. 

The  tears  gather  in  La  Valli^re's  soft  blue  eyes. 
They  course  each  other  down  her  pallid  cheeks,  and 
fall,  spotting  her  pale  blue  dress.  Her  head,  covered 
with  a  profusion  of  short  fair  curls,  is  still  bent  down. 
She  looks  like  a  delicate  flower  bowed  before  a  cruel 
tempest. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  those  fine 
diamond  bracelets  the  King  presented  to  you  the 
other  day  out  of  the  Queen's  lottery?"  asks  Madame 
Henriette  tauntingly,  interrupting  the  Queen. 

Anne  of  Austria  makes  a  sign  to  her  to  be  silent. 
Poor  Louise  for  an  instant  turns  her  eyes  imploringly 
upon  her.  Madame  grows  pale  with  spite  as  she  re- 
members those  superb  diamond  bracelets  that  the 
King  drew  as  a  prize  from  the  lottery, — which  she 
had  fully  expected  he  would  present  to  herself, — 
were  given  by  him  to  La  Valliere.  She  is  so  wroth 
she  cannot  leave  Louise  alone;  again  she  attacks  her. 
"Your  vanity  is  insufferable,  mademoiselle.  Do  you 
imagine,  petite  sotte,    that    any    one    cares    for  you? 


l60  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

Mademoiselle  de  Pons  is  the  belle  of  the  Court.  His 
Majesty  says  so." 

At  this  malicious  stab  Louise  shudders. 

"My  daughter,"  interposes  the  Queen-mother,  "do 
not  agitate  yourself.  I  understand  your  annoyance  at 
having  introduced  such  a  person  as  Mademoiselle  de 
la  Valliere  at  Court.  Let  me  address  her.  She  is 
unworthy  of  your  notice.  You  understand,  of  course, 
mademoiselle,  that  you  are  dismissed,"  she,  says,  turn- 
ing towards  her  and  speaking  imperiously. 

"But,  your  Majesty — "  and  La  Valli^re's  streaming 
«yes  are  again  lifted  upwards  for  an  instant — "what, 
oh  what  have  I  done?" 

"Ask  yourself,  mademoiselle.  Unless  there  are  to 
be  two  queens  of  France,  you  must  go.  You  cannot 
wish  me,  the  mother  of  his  Majesty,  to  enter  into 
details  on  a  subject  so  painful  to  my  feelings." 

"No,  I  should  think  not,"  breaks  in  Madame 
Henriette,  "unless  you  have  no  sense  of  decency. 
A  little  unworthy  chit  like  you  to  dare  to  trouble 
royal  princesses;  you  are  as  impertinent  as  you  are 
disreputable." 

At  these  cruel  words  La  Valliere  staggers  back- 
wards, and  almost  falls.  Then  she  again  turns  her 
swollen  eyes  towards  the  royal  ladies  with  absolute 
terror. 

Ah,  heaven!  she  thinks,  if  the  King  did  but  know 
her  agony,  her  sufferings!  Ah,  if  he  were  but  here  to 
speak  for  her!     But  not  a  word  passes  her  lips. 

Madame  Henriette's  eyes  fix  themselves  on  her 
with  a  look  of  triumph.  She  becomes  absolutely 
radiant  at  the  sight  of  the  humiliation  of  her  whom 
she  calls  "her  rival." 


THE  CONVENT   OF   CHAILLOT.  l6l 

"You  know  our  pleasure,  mademoiselle,"  says 
Anne  of  Austria,  rising  from  her  arm-chair.  "You 
will  return  from  whence  you  came — Touraine,  I  be- 
lieve. You  will  be  conducted  by  Madame  de  Choisyj 
but,  indeed,  you  need  no  escort;  you  have  nothing  to 
fear  now"  and  the  Queen-mother  casts  a  look  of 
withering  contempt  on  the  wretched  girl  more  offen- 
sive even  than  her  bitter  words. 

Louise  shrinks  backwards.   She  would  fain  escape. 

"Do  not  forget,  mademoiselle,  before  you  go,  to 
thank  Madame  Henriette  de  France  for  all  her  good- 
ness to  you,"  says  the  Queen,  arresting  her  with  a 
motion  —  "goodness,  indeed,  you  have  so  ill  re- 
quited." 

"No,  no!"  cries  Madame;  "I  want  no  thanks.  I 
only  want  to  be  rid  of  her.  Let  her  go,  my  mother; 
I  ask  no  more." 

The  two  Princesses  rise  together.  They  both  de- 
liberately turn  their  backs  upon  La  Valli^re,  and 
leave  the  room.  For  some  moments  she  stands  as  if 
turned  into  stone.  Then  she  gives  a  wild  scream, 
raises  her  small  hands,  clutches  the  delicate  curls 
that  hang  about  her  face,  and  rushes  from  "the  Grey 
Chamber." 

"Dishonoured  —  banished!  Ah,  God!  what  will 
become  of  me?"  she  cries  distractedly  when  she  has 
locked  herself  in  her  own  room.  "Ah!  what  will  my 
mother  say  when  she  knows  all?  Holy  Virgin,  I  am 
lost!" 

She  paces  up  and  down  the  floor — she  sobs,  she 
moaps.  Everything  about  her  reminds  her  of  the 
King.  She  handles  the  presents  he  has  given  her; 
she  takes  out  his  letters;   she  kisses  them;  she  presses 

Old  Court  Life  in  France.    II.  Ii 


1 62  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

them  to  her  bosom.  She  tries  to  collect  her  thoughts, 
but  the  murmur  of  the  night  wind,  sweeping  over 
the  trees  in  the  adjacent  forest  and  whistling  round 
the  angles  of  the  palace,  catches  her  ear.  To  her 
excited  imagination  it  wails  lamentations  over  her. 
As  she  listens  she  seems  to  hear  her  mother's  voice 
reproaching  her.  Now  as  the  blast  rises  higher  and 
higher  it  is  her  father,  who  curses  her  in  the  tempest 
that  sweeps  by.  Trembling  in  every  limb  she  rises 
and  dashes  the  glittering  baubles  she  still  holds  in 
her  hands  to  the  ground.  Her  head  reels,  her  reason 
totters.  Fresh  sobs  and  fresh  torrents  of  tears  come 
to  her  relief.  Suddenly  the  same  idea,  in  the  same 
place,  rushes  into  her  mind  as  had  struck  Louise  de 
Lafayette,  yet  under  widely  different  circumstances. 
Louise  de  Lafayette,  a  creature  so  pure,  so  angelic  as 
to  start  back  dismayed  from  the  faintest  whisper  of  a 
too  ardent  love — she,  Louise  de  la  Valli^re,  held  up 
to  public  contumely,  dismissed  the  Court!  She  must 
fly;  she  must  never  be  heard  of  more.  She  can  never 
return  home.  A  convent  must  hide  her.  "God  alone 
and  the  blessed  saints  are  left  to  me!"  she  cries;, 
"wretch  that  I  am,  let  me  seek  them  where  they  may 
be  found." 

As  soon  as  the  grey  morning  comes  creeping  into 
her  room,  lighting  up  her  white  face  and  crushed 
figure,  as  she  leans  back  in  the  chair  where  she  has 
sat  immovable  all  the  live-long  night,  she  rises,  and 
puts  together  a  little  bundle  of  necessaries.  She 
covers  herself  with  a  cloak,  and  softly  opening  the 
door,  makes  her  way  down  the  nearest  flight  of  stairs. 
No  one  sees  her,  for  the  day  is  only  dawning.  She 
glides    swiftly    out    of   the    palace,    passes    the    gate,. 


THE  CONVENT  OF  CHAILLOT.  1 63 

where  the  sentinel  is  sleeping  at  his  post,  and  finds 
herself  in  the  street  of  the  little  town  of  Saint-Ger- 
main. Her  heart  beats  so  quickly,  and  her  steps  are 
so  rapid,  that  she  is  soon  obliged  to  stop  for  want  of 
breath.  Not  knowing  where  to  go,  she  leans  against 
the  corner  of  a  house.  She  strains  her  eyes  up  and 
down  the  street  in  every  direction,  but  sees  no  one  of 
whom  she  can  ask  her  way.  At  last,  at  the  bottom  of 
the  grande  rue,  a  country-woman  appears,  carrying  a 
basket  on  her  arm.  She  is  on  her  way  to  market.  Louise 
flies  towards  her.  The  woman  stares  at  her.  La 
Valli^re's  lips  move,  but  she  has  no  breath  to  speak. 

"God  speed  you,  pretty  lady.  Where  are  you 
going  so  early]"  asks  the  peasant. 

"iWa  bonne,"  at  last  answers  La  Valliere,  when  she 
has  recovered  her  breath,  "can  you  tell  me  the  way 
to  Chailloti    I  want  to  go  to  the  convent." 

Now,  Chaillot  was  a  convent  founded  by  Hen- 
rietta Maria,  Queen  of  England,  situated  between 
Saint-Germain  and  Paris,  no  vestige  of  which  now 
remains. 

"Surely,  belle  dame,  I  can  tell  you.  Come  with  me, 
I  am  going  that  way,"  and  the  woman  stares  at  her 
again.  "Why  are  you  out  so  early?  Are  you  from 
the  palace?" 

"No,  no!"  gasps  La  Valliere,  terrified  to  death 
lest  the  woman's  suspicions  should  be  aroused,  and 
that  she  would  refuse  to  let  her  follow  her.  "I  am 
not  from  the  palace.  Ask  me  nothing.  I  can  only  tell 
you  that  a  great  misfortune  has  happened  to  me,  and 
that  I  am  going  to  consult  the.  Superior  of  Saint- 
Marie,  at  Chaillot,  who  is  my  friend." 

The  peasant  asks  no  more  questions,  and  La  Val- 

ii» 


l64  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

li^re,    v/ho   clings  to   her   side,    arrives   in   d-iie   time 
under  the  walls  of  Chaillot. 

"There,  mademoiselle,  is  the  Church  of  the  Sisters 
of  Sainte-Marie.    God  speed  you." 

Louise  rings  the  bell,  and  asks  the  portress  to  be 
permitted  to  speak  with  the  Superior. 

"She  is  in  retreat,  madame,  and  cannot  be  dis- 
turbed," the  portress  replies. 

"In  the  name  of  God,  my  sister,  tell  her  that  a 
person  in  great  affliction  craves  her  help." 

The  portress  does  not  immediately  answer,  but 
leads  her  into  a  hall  within,  at  one  end  of  which  is 
the  latticed  grille  which  divides  the  professed  nuns 
from  the  lay  sisters. 

An  hour  passes,  and  no  one  appears.  La  Valli^re, 
fatigued  by  the  unaccustomed  exercise,  almost  dis- 
tracted, gazes  wistfully  at  the  bare  walls  that  surround 
her.  This  then  is  to  be  the  living  tomb  of  her  youth, 
her  love.  This  grim  refuge  or  the  grave.  She  turns 
to  the  strong  door,  bound  with  iron  bars,  by  which 
she  entered,  and  shudders.  She  watches  the  handle; 
aio  one  comes,  not  a  sound  breaks  the  silence.  It 
seems  to  her  that  God  and  man  have  alike  forsaken 
her — a  creature  so  vile,  so  unworthy.  Her  repentance 
has  come  too  late.  Heaven's  mercy-gates  are  closed! 
A  wild,  unreasoning  terror  seizes  her — her  brain  beats 
as  with  iron  hammers — she  grows  cold  and  faint — a 
mist  gathers  before  her  eyes — a  deadly  sickness 
creeps  over  her — she  falls  senseless  on  the  stone 
floor. 

When  she   opens  her  eyes,   she   is  lying  upon  a 
clean  bed,  shaded  by  snowy  curtains,  in  a  little  white- 


THE  CONVENT  OF  CHAILLOT.  1 65 

washed    cell;    two    dark-robed    Carmelite    sisters    are 
bending  over  her. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  King  heard  that  La 
Valli^re  had  fled.  Not  daring  to  make  too  public 
inquiries,  he  sent  for  the  superintendent  of  police,  La 
Regnie. 

"Find  Mademoiselle  de  la  Valli^re,"  he  says, 
"dead  or  alive;  find  her  instantly — instantly,  I  say,  or 
I  dismiss  you  from  my  service." 

This  was  not  difficult;  the  trembling  steps  of  the 
fugitive  were  soon  traced.  La  Regnie  returns,  and 
informs  his  royal  master  that  La  Valli^re  is  within 
the  Convent  of  Chaillot.  Louis  does  not  lose  a 
moment  in  following  her.  He  appears  at  the  convent 
gate,  accompanied  by  his  confidant,  Lauzun.  He  de- 
mands admittance.  Some  of  the  older  nuns,  scan- 
dalized at  the  idea  of  a  man  entering  the  cloister, 
refuse  to  unlock  the  gate;  but  the  Mother-Superior, 
wiser  in  her  generation;'  herself  descends,  and  key  in 
hand  undoes  the  fastenings,  and  welcomes  his  Majesty 
with  the  utmost  deference. 

Meanwhile,  La  Valliere,  somewhat  recovered  from 
her  swoon,  sits  alone  beside  a  narrow  window  which 
overlooks  the  convent  garden.  She  feels  dull  and  op- 
pressed; her  eyes  are  dazed;  her  head  is  heavy. 

The  perfect  silence  around  her,  the  homely  little 
cell  looking  into  a  peaceful  garden,  full  of  herbs  and 
vegetables  for  the  service  of  the  convent,  in  one 
corner  a  grove  of  cypress-trees,  which  overtops  the 
high  walls  that  encircle  it,  is  all  new  and  strange  to 
her.  She  seems  to  have  passed  into  another  Avorld. 
She  remembers  but  indistincdy  all  that  has  happened; 
she   has   almost   forgotten   how    she    came   there.     A 


1 66  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

pensive  melancholy  paralyzes  her  senses.  She  is  very 
weak  and  helpless;  her  brain  is  still  confused.  It  is 
all  very  strange.  She  cannot  collect  her  thoughts; 
but  over  all  the  mists  of  memory,  plain  and  distinct, 
rise  a  face  and  form  dear  to  her  beyond  life. 

Suddenly  a  sound  of  approaching  footsteps 
awakens  the  echoes  of  the  long  corridor  leading  to 
the  cell.  As  well  as  steps  there  is  a  confused  hum  of 
many  persons  talking.  At  first  she  listens  vaguely; 
then,  as  the  sounds  grow  nearer,  she  springs  to  her 
feet.  A  sound  has  struck  upon  her  ear — a  sound 
sweeter  than  music.  It  is  the  King's  voice!  The  door 
is  flung  open,  and  Louis — his  handsome  face  flushed 
with  excitement,  his  eyes  beaming  with  tenderness — 
stands  before  her. 

"Come,"  he  says  softly,  whispering  into  her  ear, 
and  pressing  her  cold  hand  within  both  his  own, 
"come,  my  beloved,  you  have  nothing  in  common 
with  this  dreary  place.  I  am  ♦lere  to  carry  you  away. 
Fear  no  one;  I  will  protect  you — I  will  glory  in  pro- 
tecting you.    Rise,  my  Louise,  and  follow  me." 

The  Carmelite  sisters  stand  peeping  in  at  the 
door.  The  Superior  alone  has  followed  his  Majesty 
into  the  cell.  Some  moments  pass  before  Louise 
commands  her  voice  to  speak;  at  last,  in  a  scarcely 
audible  whisper,  and  trembling  all  over,  she  says — 

"Sire ,"  then,   not  daring  to  meet  the  King's 

impassioned  glance,  she  pauses;  "Sire,"  she  repeats, 
"I  did  not  come  here  of  my  own  accord.  I  was 
obliged  to  leave.  My  remaining  at  Saint-Germain  of- 
fended her  Majesty  and  other  great  personages" — she 
stops  again,  overcome  by  the  recollection  of  the 
scene  with  the  Queen  and  the  Duchesse  d'Orleans — 


THE  CONVENT  OF  CHAILLOT.  167 

"personages,  Sire,  whom  I  dare  not — I  could  not  of- 
fend," Her  soft  face  is  suffused  with  a  blush  of 
anguish;  she  hangs  down  her  head.  "I  was  sent 
away,  Sire;  it  was  not  my  wish  to  go — indeed  it  was 
not  my  wish!"  she  adds,  in  a  voice  so  low  and 
tremulous  that  Louis  could  not  have  heard  what  she 
said  had  he  not  bent  down  his  ear  close  to  her  white 
lips. 

"Then  you  shall  return,  dearest,  for  mine.  I  am 
master,  and  my  wish  is  law.  I  care  nothing  for 
•august  personages;'  they  shall  learn  to  obey  me — the 
sooner  the  better." 

"But,  Sire,  I  cannot  be  the  cause  of  strife.  The 
Queen-mother  and  Madame  have  dismissed  me;  and 
they  were  right,"  she  added  in  a  very  faint  voice.     "I 

dare  not  offend  them  by  my  presence,  after "  she 

stops,  and  can  say  no  more. 

"Think  of  the  future,  Louise,  not  of  the  past;  it  is 
gone,"  and  Louis  takes  her  trembling  hands  in  his. 
"A  future  lies  before  you  full  of  joy.  Leave  the 
Queen-mother  to  me,  Louise.  Come — come  with  me," 
and  with  gentle  violence  he  tries  to  raise  her  from  her 
chair.    "Follow  me,  and  fear  nothing." 

"Oh,  Sire,"  whispers  Louise,  the  colour  again 
leaving  her  cheeks,  "do  not  tempt  me  from  my  vo- 
cation." 

"Do  not  talk  to  me  of  your  vocation,"  returns 
Louis  roughly;  "what  is  your  vocation  to  me]  Can 
you  part  from  me  so  lightly]"  he  adds,  more  gently. 

"Alas,  Sire,  I  dare  not  return  to  Court;  every  look 
would  condemn  me!" 

"Condemn  you!    Believe  me,  I  will  place  you  so 


l68  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

high  that  no  one  shall  dare  to  condemn  you.     Am  I 
not  the  master?" 

"Oh,  suffer  me  to  lay  my  sins  upon  the  altar!  Do 
not  seek  to  prevent  it,"  sighs  La  Valli^re,  clasping  her 
hands.  "But,  remember.  Sire,  oh,  remember,  that  in 
my  heart  you  can  have  no  rival  but  heaven."  She 
speaks  with  passion,  but  she  dares  not  look  up  at  him; 
had  she  done  so,  she  would  have  quailed  before  the 
expression  of  his  eyes; — they  devour  her. 

All  this  is  said  very  low,  in  order  not  to  be  over- 
heard by  the  Superior,  who,  although  she  has  retired 
as  far  as  the  doorway,  is  still  present. 

"Louise,  you  do  not  love  me.  You  have  never 
loved  me,"  whispers  Louis,  and  he  turns  away.  He  is 
deeply  offended;  her  resistance  to  his  commands  en- 
rages him. 

"Ah,  heaven!"  La  Valli^re  sighs,  and  turns  her 
blue  eyes,  swimming  with  tears,  towards  him,  "would 
to  God  it  were  so!"  She  speaks  in  so  subdued  a  tone 
— she  is  so  crushed,  so  fragile — that  the  King's  com- 
passion is  suddenly  excited;  he  looks  steadfastly  into 
her  face;  he  trembles  lest  she  may  die  under  this  trial. 
Again  he  takes  her  hand,  raises  her  from  her  chair, 
and  draws  her  towards  the  door. 

"If  you  love  me,  Louise,  follow  me.  I  cannot  live 
without  you!"  he  adds  almost  fiercely.  "Fear  nothing. 
Her  Majesty  shall  receive  you.  The  Queen-mother 
and  Madame" — at  their  names  La  Valli^re  quivers  all 
over — "shall  offend  you  no  more.  Leave  this  horrible 
cell,  my  Louise.  Come,  and  let  me  enshrine  you  in 
a  temple  worthy  of  your  beauty,  your  goodness,  and 
of  my  love,"  he  adds,  in  a  fervid  whisper,  which  makes 
her  heart  throb  with  rapture.     "Come!" 


FOUQUET,  SUPERINTENDENT   OF  FINANCE.  169 

Louise  returns  to  Saint-Germain.  She  is  created 
Duchesse  de  la  Valliere,  and  is  appointed  Lady  of  the 
Bedchamber  to  Queen  Maria  Theresa. 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Fouquet,  Superintendent  of  Finance. 

Nicholas  Fouquet,  Marquis  de  Belle-Isle  and  Vi- 
comte  de  Melun  et  Vaux,*  held  the  post  of  Superin- 
tendent of  Finance  under  the  Regency  of  Anne  of 
Austria.  He  was  continued  in  this  important  office 
after  the  accession  of  Louis  XIV.  Fouquet  was  insinu- 
ating, specious,  hypocritical,  and  sensual;  a  munifi- 
cent patron  to  those  about  him,  and  an  adorer  of  the 
beautiful  in  art  and  nature.  He  was,  moreover,  one 
of  those  courtly  financiers  so  constantly  met  with  be- 
fore the  Revolution,  who,  however  the  country  starved, 
always  found  funds  "for  the  service  of  his  Majesty." 

In  course  of  time,  Louis  grew  alarmed  at  Fou- 
quet's  reckless  expenditure;  his  personal  magnificence 
was  boundless,  but  there  was  not  a  sous  of  state  mo- 
ney in  reserve.  Colbert  was  consulted  by  the  King. 
Colbert  was  jealous  of  Fouquet's  posidon^he  exauiined 
fiis  accounts,  and  "found  tlieni  incorrect.  The  King 
courfeo^i;Ty^p^iTire_d~out  the  errors  to  Fouquet,  who 
persisted  in  the  perfect  accuracy  of  his  figures.  t.6uls, 
convinced  of  the  Superintendent's  dishonesty,  resolved 
to  dismiss  him  on  the  first  opportunity. 

-  But   this   falsification   of   accounts    was    his    least 
cause  of  offence  to  his  Sovereign.     Fouquet  had  pre- 

•  Vaux-Praslin  .  near  M^un ,  is  still  a  superb  chSteau.  It  was  sold  by 
the  son  of  the  Superintendent  to  the  .Martfchal  de  Villars,  who,  in  his  turn, 
sold  it  to  the  Due  de  Praslin. 


170  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

sumed  to  imitate  the  Olympian  tastes  of  the  Grand 
Monarqiie.  If  Louis  was  a  god,  his  Superintendent 
was  at  least  a  demi-god,  and  claimed  a  demi-god's 
privilege  of  "loving  the  daughters  of  men."  Unfor- 
tunately, too,  he  dared  to  raise  his  eyes  to  those  par- 
ticular idols  worshipped  by  the  King.  His  disgrace 
was  therefore  certain.  Some  indistinct  rumours  of  the 
danger  that  threatened  him  reached  his  ears.  He  was 
moved,  but  not  alarmed.  He  racked  his  fertile  brain 
how  best  to  recover  favour,  and  he  determined  to  give 
so  magnificent  a  fete  in  honour  of  the  King  at  his 
country-seat,  Vaux,  near  Melun,  as  should  remove  all 
suspicion  of  his  loyalty.  Such  were  the  customs  of 
the  age.  Having  for  years  systematically  robbed  the 
State,  Fouquet  was  to  reinstate  himself  in  favour  by  a 
still  more  public  theft! 

Before  Versailles  arose  on  the  sand-hills  lying  be- 
tween Saint-Cyr  and  the  wooded  uplands  of  Saint- 
Cloud,  Vaux  was  the  most  splendid  palace  in  France. 
The  architect  was  Le  Vau,  celebrated  byBoileau.  The 
corps  de  logis  was  surmounted  by  a  dome  supported 
by  sixteen  marble  arches,  resting  on  pillars;  two  im- 
mense pavilions  formed  the  wings.  The  gardens,  de- 
signed by  Le  Notre,  were  decorated  with  statues,  and 
balustraded  terraces  bordering  canals,  and  water-works, 
in  the  Italian  fashion — "surprises,"  as  they  were  called. 
All  was  formal  and  symmetrical;  the  very  plants  and 
shrubs  were  only  permitted  to  grow  to  order.  Nature 
was  banished  to  the  distant  woods,  which  spread  in 
verdant  folds  about  the  rising  ground  behind  the  cha- 
teau, and  decked  the  greensward  of  the  park,  ere  it 
reached  the  waters  of  the  Seine  flowing  below. 

The  fete  was  fixed  for  the  17th  of  August.    It  was 


FOUQUET,   SUPERINTENDENT  OF   FINANCE.  I  7  I 

a  splendid  day;  the  sky  was  unclouded,  and  the 
golden  sunshine  lighted  up  the  deepest  recesses  of  the 
forest,  when  Louis  started  in  the  morning  from 
Fontainebleau,  where  the  Court  was  then  staying. 
He  was  escorted  by  d'Artagnan  and  a  regiment  of 
musketeers. 

There  was  a  goodly  company;  the  King  drove  La 
Valli^re  and  the  Comtesse  de  Guiche  in  his  calhhe; 
the  Queen-mother  came  in  her  coach;  other  ladies 
were  in  litters.  The  Queen,  who  was  in  an  interest- 
ing state  of  health,  stayed  at  home.  Fouquet  stood 
ready,  at  the  grand  entrance  of  his  palace.  He  re- 
ceived the  King  kneeling,  and  presented  to  him  the 
golden  keys  of  Vaux.  Louis  touched  them  with  his 
fingers,  raised  Fouquet  from  the  ground,  and  in  a  few 
gracious  words  assured  him  of  his  favour  and  protec- 
tion; with  what  truth  we  shall  see.  The  same  cere- 
mony was  repeated  by  Madame  Fouquet  to  the  Queen- 
mother,  with  a  like  result. 

On  entering  the  vestibule,  even  the  Gallic  Jupiter 
was  amazed  at  the  magnificence  of  all  he  saw.  The 
suite  of  rooms  were  arranged  in  allegorical  order,  each 
named  after  a  god  or,  goddess;  the  ceilings  and  walls 
painted  to  represent  their  attributes  and  the  events  of 
their  lives.  The  sun  and  moon,  the  planets  and  fixed 
stars,  also  formed  an  important  feature  in  the  decora- 
tions. The  seasons  added  their  attributes,  and  to- 
gether with  the  winds  lent  themselves  gracefully  to  the 
necessities  of  the  general  arrangements.  His  Majesty 
was  invited  to  repose  in  the  billiard-room,  dedicated 
to  Hercules,  who  by  a  happy  invention  prefigured 
himself  From  the  billiard-room  he  entered  the  grand 
saloon,  where  the  sun,  in  gorgeous  colours  of  saffron. 


172  OLD-  COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

crimson,  and  scarlet,  covered  the  entire  ceiling.  Louis 
smiled  a  smile  of  gratification;  the  sun  was  his  acknow- 
ledged emblem.  Was  it  possible,  he  thought,  that 
Fouquet  might  be  forgiven?  The  Superintendent  ad- 
vanced. He  bowed  to  the  ground,  and  asked  leave 
to  explain  the  legend. 

"The  sun — the  centre  of  the  universe,  the  creator 
of  light,  heat,  and  life — is  your  Majesty.  Deprived  of 
your  gracious  presence,  we  sink  into  darkness  and 
death.  That  star  beside  the  sun  is  myself,  Sire,  re- 
ceiving light  from  your  Majesty's  benignant  rays." 

Louis  frowned,  and  bit  his  lip.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  the  star  was  dangerously  near  the  sun;  it  dis- 
pleased him.  He  changed  his  mind,  and  now  decided 
that  that  too  assertative  star  must  be  extinguished. 

From  the  saloon,  Louis  passed  into  a  retiring- 
room,  dedicated  to  the  Muses  and  the  Virtues,  all 
with  open  mouths,  grouped  round  a  figure  of  Fidelity, 
whose  praises  they  sang. 

"Who  is  represented  by  Fidelity?"  asked  Louis, 
turning  to  the  Due  de  Saint-Aignan,  in  attendance  on 
him. 

"I  have  just  been  told  that  Fidelity  represents  Fou- 
quet himself,  your  Majesty." 

"What  on  earth  can  Fidelity  have  to  do  with  a 
Superintendent  of  Finance?"  muttered  Louis,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders.  "And  that  female  figure  conduct- 
ing Fidelity — who  is  that?" 

"Prudence,  I  am  told,"  replied  Saint-Aignan.  "Pru- 
dence; and  the  one  on  the  other  side  is  Reason." 

"Prudence,  Reason,  and  Fidelity  guiding  Fouquet. 
Ma  foi,   it  is  not  bad,"   and  an  ironical  smile  passed 


FOUQUET,  SUPERINTENDENT  OF  FINANCE.  1 73 

over  the  monarch's  face.   "But  we  have  not  done  with 
the  paintings  yet.     Who  are  the  others?" 

"That  figure,  Sire,  in  a  golden-coloured  robe,  is 
Clio,  I  am  told,  the  Muse  of  History.  With  one  hand 
she  assists  Fidelity  into  heaven,  with  the  other  she  re- 
cords the  annals  of  his  life." 

"The  annals  of  his  life,"  muttered  the  King  (for 
Fouquet  stood  near  at  hand,  to  be  summoned  by  his 
Sovereign  when  wanted).  "It  will  be  well  for  him  if 
history  does  not  record  his  signal  disgrace.  He  may 
prove  another  Phaeton,  this  M.  Fouquet,  and  fall  from 
the  stars  into  eternal  darkness.  Jupiter  still  grasps  his 
thunders.  Let  us  leave  this  room — it  stifles  me,"- said 
Louis  aloud.  "What  is  the  meaning  of  the  device  of 
the  serpents  I  see  everywhere?"  again  inquired  Louis 
of  the  Duke. 

"The  serpents  represent  Colbert,  the  rival  of 
Fouquet,  Sire.  Fidelity,  Reason,  and  Discretion  crush 
these  serpents  as  you  see." 

"Really,  these  allegories  are  charming,  M.  Fouquet," 
said  Louis,  with  a  covert  sneer,  turning  towards  his 
host,  and  speaking  in  a  loud  voice,  "but  allegories  are 
not  always  truthful."  Fouquet  bowed  to  the  ground, 
and  turned  ver>-  pale. 

After  having  examined  the  interior  of  the  chiteau, 
and  partaken  of  a  sumptuous  refection,  the  King  was 
invited  to  pass  into  the  garden  to  see  the  illumina- 
tions. 

There  the  whole  horizon  was  aglow.  On  three 
broad  terraces,  of  the  purest  white  marble,  which  ex- 
tended along  the  entire  facade  of  the  building,  rows 
of   golden   candelabra    bore   myriads    of    wax    lights. 


174  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

Rows  of  gigantic  orange-trees,  in  full  blossom,  shone 
with  orbs  of  variegated  light,  that  glittered  on  the 
dark  surface  of  the  polished  leaves.  Below,  in  a  vast 
square,  fashioned  into  a  sunken  parterre  of  flowers, 
arranged  in  various  patterns,  cunningly  concealed 
lamps  of  every  hue  were  hidden  among  the  leaves, 
their  innumerable  flamelets  forming  a  carpet  of  living 
fire.  Jets  of  flame  leaped  from  tree  to  tree.  Beyond 
the  parterre,  the  broad  canal  banks  blazed  and  pal- 
pitated with  fiery  heat.  The  waters,  of  a  ruddy  hue^ 
now  reflecting  the  gorgeous  scene,  now  riven  into  j'e^s 
d'eau  and  fountains  which  blaze  upwards  for  an  in- 
stant, throwing  up  clouds  of  rockets  that  sport  like 
comets  among  the  stars,  to  fall  back  in  cascades  of 
golden  sparks.  Beyond,  in  the  woods >  each  noble 
forest-tree,  in  minutest  detail  of  every  branch  and  twig, 
stood  out  in  relief  against  what  appeared  a  vault  of 
fire.  Long  vistas  led  far  away  among  stalwart  oaks 
and  feathery  limes,  growing  out  of  a  sea  of  flames. 
All  around  there  was  nothing  but  fire — dazzling,  over- 
whelming fire.  Now  it  turned  to  green,  then  by  some 
magic  touch  it  changed  to  blue,  then  flashed  into 
crimson;  while /eux  de  joie  and  cannon  roared  from 
concealed  batteries,  and  shook  the  very  air.  Behind, 
the  architectural  lines  of  the  chateau  were  marked  by 
clusters  of  golden  lamps.  Every  room  shone  brighter 
than  at  noon,  and  the  central  dome,  with  its  graceful 
colonnade,  blazed  like  a  volcano.  On  the  terrace,  in 
front  of  the  chateau,  military  bands  clashed  with 
joyous  symphonies.  When  these  ceased,  soft  music 
sounded  from  out  the  fiery  woods,  from  violins  and 
flutes,  swelling  in  the  cadences  of  some  tender  melody. 
The  crowd  below,  changing  with  the  metamorphose  of 


FOUQUET,  SUPERINTENDENT  OF  FINANCE.  I  75 

the  lights,  formed  a  fitting  fore-ground  to  this  burning 
perspective.  It  was  a  scene  of  artificial  life  after 
Lancret,  backed  by  a  conflagration.  Brocaded  trains 
swept  along  the  fine  gravel  of  the  walks.  Wreaths  of 
diamonds  sparkled  on  voluminous  wigs,  which  fell  in 
heavy  curls  over  neck  and  shoulders.  Long  white 
feathers,  and  finest  Brussels  lace,  fringed  and  decked 
turned-up  hats  of  velvet.  Glittering  officers  were  side 
by  side  with  comely  pages,  brighter  than  butterflies. 
Gold  embroideries  shone  on  delicately  coloured  velvets, 
satins,  and  watered-silks;  priceless  jewels  glittered  on 
knee  and  shoe,  on  neck  and  arm,  on  waist  and  dra- 
pery; torsades  on  hats,  and  sword-hilts  flashed  and 
multiplied  the  fiery  marvels  of  the  night.  Even  le 
Grand  Monarque,  as  he  paused  upon  the  terrace  to 
observe  the  scene,  deigned  to  express  his  admiration 
and  surprise.  But  his  praise  was  scant,  his  words 
cold,  he  spoke  morosely,  and  his  brows  were  knit. 

The  more  he  investigated  the  magnificence  of 
Vaux,  the  more  he  believed  the  accusations  of  Colbert. 
Fouquet  heard  the  praise;  he  did  not  observe  the 
frown.  He  was  radiant.  Louis  looked  round,  anxious 
to  escape  from  the  glare  and  the  crowd.  He  longed 
to  retire  into  some  shady  grove  with  La  Valli^re.  She 
was  very  beautiful  that  evening.  Louis  reproached 
himself  for  ever  having  caused  her  pain.  She  wore  a 
dress  of  white  stuff,  worked  with  golden  leaves;  a  blue 
ribbon,  tied  in  a  knot  in  front,  encircled  her  small 
waist.  Her  light  hair,  untouched  by  powder,  and 
sown  with  flowers  and  pearls,  fell  over  her  shoulders; 
two  enormous  emeralds  hung  in  her  ears.  Her  arms 
were  uncovered,  but  to  conceal  their  thinness,  she 
wore  above  the  elbow  a  broad  circlet  of  gold  set  with 


176  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

opals.  Her  gloves  were  of  fine  Brussels  lace,  showing 
the  rosy  skin  beneath.  Her  graceful  yet  dignified 
manners,  her  tender  blue  eyes,  breathing  nothing  but 
love  and  gentleness,  her  look  of  patient  goodness, 
were  never  more  charming  than  when  seen  among  the 
painted  and  powdered  belles  of  that  intriguing  Court. 
It  was  impossible  for  Louis  to  have  a  word  with  her 
in  private.  Every  feminine  eye  was  bent  upon  him. 
All  the  ladies — young,  old,  fair  and  dark — pressed 
round  him  as  he  moved  among  the  alleys  and  ter- 
races of  the  illuminated  garden.  He  was  the  rose 
that  attracted  alike  the  butterflies  and  the  grubs  — 
the  sunshine  and  the  shadow.  Like  royalty  of  all 
ages,  Louis  soon  grew  weary  of  this  espionage,  and 
called  for  the  Due  de  Saint- Aignan.  He  was  no- 
where to  be  found.  At  last,  after  having  walked  up 
.and  down  the  three  terraces,  admired  the  great  cascade 
and  the  grotto,  afterwards  to  be  repeated  at  Saint- 
Cloud,  he  sought  out  the  Queen-mother.  She  was 
seated  on  the  terrace,  surveying  the  illumination  at  a 
distance.  Louis  leaned  over  the  marble  balustrade 
near  her. 

"This  is  magnificent,  my  mother,"  said  he;  "so 
magnificent  that  I  believe  every  word  Colbert  has  told 
me.  Colbert  showed  me  peculations  on  paper;  I  see 
them  here  with  my  own  eyes.  Think  of  the  millions 
he  must  have  spent!  Look  at  my  palace  of  Saint- 
Germain — dilapidated,  dismal;  Fontainebleau  still  un- 
finished. It  is  shameful!  Fouquet  is  a  mushroom, 
who  has  nourished  himself  out  of  my  revenues.  I  can 
crush  him — I  will  crush  him — destroy  him!"  and  the 
King  stamped  his  foot  savagely  on  a  pavement  of 
coloured  marbles. 


FOUQUET,   SUPERINTENDENT   OF  FINANCE.  1 77 

"My  son,  do  not  speak  so  loudly,"  replied  the 
Queen. 

At  this  moment  Saint-Aignan  appeared  ascending 
the  steps  from  below. 

"Where  have  you  been,  DukeV  asked  Louis 
sharply. 

"A  thousand  pardons,  your  Majesty.  They  searched 
for  me  in  the  wrong  place.  You  will  not,  however, 
have  reason  to  regret  my  absence,"  and  he  gave  the 
King  a  look  full  of  meaning,  and  signed  to  him  to 
move  farther  off  from  all  possibility  of  listeners.  "Sire," 
continued  he,  "1  have  made  a  discovery." 

"A  discovery!  Where?  What  have  you  found?" 
and  Louis  drew  closer  to  him. 

"Sire,  I  fear  you  have  a  rival,"  and  Saint-Aignan 
glanced  significandy  at  the  Duchesse  de  la  Valli^re, 
who  sat  on  a  settee  behind,  not  far  from  the  Queen- 
mother. 

"A  rival!  Ridiculous!  You  have  been  asleep  and 
dreaming,  Duke." 

"No,  Sire;  on  the  faith  of  a  peer  of  France,  no. 
Your  Majesty  has  a  rival,  I  repeat." 

"What  do  I  care  for  rivals!  I  have  her  heart," 
and  Louis  glanced  tenderly  at  La  Valli^re. 

"But  is  your  Majesty  so  certain?" 

"Certain?  Ask  me  if  I  live!"  exclaimed  Louis 
with  warmth.  "But  tell  me  what  you  mean.  Speak, 
Duke,  and  speak  quickly,  for  we  may  be  interrupted." 

"Well,  Sire,  some  fairy,  who  I  suppose  watches 
over  your  interests,  told  me  to  wander  over  the  chateau 
and  examine  the  more  private  chambers.  No  one 
was  by.  Every  one  was  in  the  garden  with  your 
Majesty  to   see   the   illuminations.     At  the   end  of  a 

Old  Court  Life  in  France.    II.  12 


178  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN   FRANCE. 

long  gallery,  in  a  distant  part  of  the  house,  I  came 
upon  a  boudoir — such  a  bijou  of  a  room! — evidently 
belonging  to  Fouquet.  On  the  walls  hung  the  portraits 
of  some  of  the  fairest  ladies  of  th€  Court.  It  is  a  hall 
of  beauty,  Sire." 

"Go  on,"  said  Louis  impatiently;  "I  understand.'* 

"Among  these  beauties,  Sire,  was — well — there  was 
the  lady  you  honour  with  your  special  attentions — 
Madame  la  Duchesse"  —  and  Saint- Aignan  stopped, 
and  again  indicated  La  Valliere,  who,  unconscious  of 
what  was  going  on,  sat  near,  her  delicate  cheek  rest- 
ing on  her  hand. 

"You  need  mention  no  names,  Saint-Aignan.  I 
tell  you,  I  understand,"  replied  the  King  with  evident 
irritation.  "And  pray  what  does  it  matter  if  you  did 
find  the  portrait  of  that  lady  there?  I  see  nothing  in 
it  at  all  remarkable.  No  hall  of  beauty  would  be 
complete  without  her  likeness.  Who  were  the  other 
portraits?" 

"Ah,  Sire,  that  is  precisely  the  point  I  am  coming 
to.  They  were  all  portraits  of  ladies  who  are  or  have 
been  the  acknowledged  mistresses  of  Fouquet.  If 
Madame  la  Duchesse  de " 

"I  beg  you  again  not  to  mention  any  names,  Duke," 
broke  in  the  King  haughtily,  a  storm  gathering  on  his 
brow. 

"If  that  lady,  Sire,  had  not  resembled  the  others, 
why  should  she  have  been  there?" 

To  this  somewhat  daring  question  Louis  did  not 
vouchsafe  a  reply.  His  countenance  darkened  into  an 
expression  of  silent  rage.  His  eyes  glittered  as  he 
passed  his  hand  over  them.  When  he  spoke  there 
was  doubt,  anxiety,  as  well  as  anger  in  his  voice  and 


FOUQUET,   SUPERINTENDENT  OF  FINANCE.  I  79 

manner.  "I  am  astonished,  I  confess,"  said  he,  speak- 
ing very  deliberately.  "I  am  quite  at  a  loss  to  explain 
it.  Her  portrait  is  there,  you  say.  It  may  be,  Saint- 
Aignan.  I  cannot  doubt  your  word,  but — it  is  im- 
possible that "     He  paused,   and  his  eyes  rested 

on  her  guileless  face. 

"Sire,  it  is  not  for  me  to  differ  from  your  Majesty," 
rejoined  Saint-Aignan,  fearful  lest  he  had  injured  self 
in  the  King's  opinion  by  his  over-frankness;  "your 
superior  intellect  and  far-seeing  judgment  will  unfold 
to  you  mysteries  impervious  to  my  grosser  comprehen- 
sion; but  I  repeat,  in  the  boudoir  of  M.  Fouquet  I 
saw  the  portrait  of  Madame  La  Duchesse — I  beg  your 
Majesty's  pardon — placed  among  those  of  ladies  whose 
relations  with  him  are  more  than  equivocal." 

"I  will  speak  to  the  lady  myself.  She  is  ignorant 
of  this,  I  venture  my  life,"  said  Louis,  his  eyes  again 
fixing  themselves  wistfully  upon  La  Valli(^re.  "In  the 
meantime,  Duke,  I  thank  you  for  your  zeal  in  my 
service.  Now,  remember,  until  our  return  to  Fon- 
tainebleau  silence — absolute  silence — or  I  shall  never 
forgive  you."  Louis  placed  his  finger  on  his  lip — 
Saint-Aignan,  glad  to  end  so  perilous  an  interview, 
bowed,  and  immediately  fell  back  among  the  crowd 
of  courtiers  who  hovered  about  the  King. 

Louis's  blood  boiled  within  him.  He  had  con- 
trolled himself  in  the  presence  of  Saint-Aignan,  but 
it  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  he  could  any  longer 
restrain  his  ])assion.  He  longed  then  and  there  to  call 
in  the  musketeers,  and  arrest  Fouquet  on  the  spot. 
D'Artagnan  and  his  followers  were  at  hand;  it  would 
have  been  the  work  of  an  instant.  At  a  loss  what  to 
do,   and  feeling  the  necessity  for  some  expression  of 

I2» 


l80  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE 

the  violent  rage  he  felt,  he  approached  his  mother, 
Anne  of  Austria,  who  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair, 
absorbed  in  a  deep  reverie.  She  was  only  present  at 
that  dazzling  fete  in  body — her  mind  was  far  away. 
To  her  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  the  world  were  be- 
come a  mockery  and  a  toil;  she  longed  for  the  seclu- 
sion of  the  cloister. 

"It  is  all  over,"  whispered  the  King,  and  his  voice 
grated  huskily  in  her  ear;  "Fouquet  will  be  arrested 
to-night." 

"What  has  he  done?"  asked  Anne  of  Austria. 

"I  have  excellent  reasons,  my  mother;  besides, 
Fouquet  may  escape  to  Belle  Isle — here  I  have  him, 
I  hold  him!"  and  Louis,  in  his  heat,  shook  his  fist  in 
his  mother's  face. 

"You  are  strangely  moved,  Louis.  I  do  not  know 
your  reasons,  but  I  advise  you,  for  the  sake  of  your 
own  dignity,  to  choose  a  more  suitable  moment  than 
during  a  fete  at  which  you  are  present  in  his  own 
house." 

"Every  time  is  good  to  catch  a  traitor." 

"Yes;  but,  my  son,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  de- 
corum. The  Superintendent  has  given  you  a  superb 
fete,  which  you  have  accepted.  You  are  under  his 
roof;  you  cannot  arrest  him  while  you  are  his  guest. 
It  is  out  of  the  question." 

"But,  my  mother,  I  have  reasons  of  state." 

"Then  they  must  wait.  What  would  the  Court — 
what  would  France  —  say  to  such  an  act]  Take  care, 
my  son,  that  those  who  may  never  know  your  justifi- 
cation do  not  condemn  your  act.  Even  you  are  not 
above  public  opinion." 


DEATH   AND   POISON.  l8l 

Louis  did  not  reply,  but  the  Queen-mother  per- 
ceived that  her  words  had  convinced  him. 

The  Court  returned  to  Fontainebleau  in  the  same 
order  as  it  came. 

A  lettre  de  cachet,  dated  the  day  after  the  fete,  con- 
signed Fouquet  to  the  fortress  of  Pignerol.  Louise  de 
la  Valli^re  was  enabled  to  soothe  his  Majesty's  suspi- 
cions, with  regard  to  the  portrait,  by  assuring  him  that 
if  his  indignation  had  been  aroused,  her  feelings  had 
been  much  more  grossly  outraged. 

,     CHAPTER  XIX. 
Death  and  Poison. 

"Anne,  daughter  of  Philip  III.,  King  of  Spain,  and 
Margaret  of  Austria,  his  wife,  married  to  Louis  XIIL, 
King  of  France,  surnamed  the  Just,  mother  of  Louis  XIV., 
surnamed  Dieudonne,  and  of  Philip  of  France,  Due 
d'Orleans,  born  September,  1601,  died  January,  1666." 

These  words  stood  at  the  head  of  a  will  which  was 
signed  '■'approved,  Louis."  Anne  of  Austria  has  -tood 
before  us,  from  her  fifteenth  year  until  now;  first,  the 
golden-haired  girl,  next  the  persecuted  wife,  then  the 
stately  regent,  finally  the  devoted  and  conscientious 
mother.  And  now  her  time  has  come;  she  is  dying 
at  the  Louvre.  Her  malady  is  a  cancer  in  the  breast, 
long  concealed,  now  aggravated  by  the  ignorance  of 
quacks.  Latterly  it  has  become  an  open  wound,  the 
seat  of  intense  suffering.  Her  daintily  nurtured  body 
and  sensitive  skin,  which  could  not  bear  the  touch  of 
any  but  the  finest  and  softest  linen,  the  delicate  habits 
of  her  daily  life,  her  extreme  refinement  of  mind 
and   person  (not  common   in  those  days  even  among 


1 82  OLD   COURT  LIFE   IN  FRANCE. 

princes),  have  come  to  this:  "God  punishes  me  in  that 
body  which  I  have  too  carefully  tended,"  she  said.  But 
the  Queen's  mind  had  long  been  weaned  from  the 
world,  her  once  lofty  spirit  schooled  to  the  uses  of  ad- 
versity, and  she  bears  her  protracted  sufferings  with  ad- 
mirable meekness  and  resignation.  Her  face  shrunken, 
drawn,  and  ashen,  her  frame  bowed  with  intense  pain 
rather  than  the  weight  of  years,  have  lost  all  trace  of 
their  singular  beauty;  but  the  hands  and  arms  are 
still  white,  plump  and  shapely.  To  the  last,  her  son 
Louis  XIV.  reverently  kisses  those  taper  fingers  that 
had  fondly  entwined  themselves  among  his  clustering 
curls  from  boy  to  man.  As  long  as  that  silvery  voice 
could  make  itself  heard,  it  was  as  a  peacemaker  and 
as  a  friend.  When  Maria  Theresa,  her  niece,  com- 
plained to  her  of  the  King's  too  apparent  liaison  with 
La  Valliere,  the  dying  Queen  stroked  her  cheek,  and 
comforted  her,  praying  her  to  pardon  the  fire  of  youth- 
ful blood,  and  to  remember  that  Louis,  if  erring,  both 
loved  and  respected  her.  She  reminded  her,  "that  she 
(Maria  Theresa)  had  at  least  a  much  happier  lot  than 
her  own."  Overcome  by  suffering  during  the  long 
watches  of  the  night,  when  she  could  not  sleep,  she 
weeps;  as  the  tears  roll  down  her  wrinkled  cheeks, 
Mademoiselle  de  Beauvais  wipes  them  away  with  her 
handkerchief. 

"I  do  not  really  weep,  ma  bonne ^^  said  the  dying 
Queen;  "these  tears  that  I  shed  are  forced  from  me 
by  intense  anguish;  you  know  I  never  cry."  The  Arch- 
bishop d'Auch,  seeing  her  condition,  told  her  plainly 
that  the  doctor  despaired  of  her  life. 

"I  thank  God,"  she  answered.  "Do  not  lament," 
added  she,   turning  to  her  ladies,   whose  sobs  caught 


DEATH  AND  POISON.  1 83 

her  ear;  "we  must  all  die.  I  am  still  among  you;  when 
I  am  gone,  then  grieve  for  me,  not  yet." 

Her  son,  Philippe  d'Orl^ans,  sat  constantly  beside 
her  bed.  While  he  was  present  she  never  allowed 
herself  to  utter  a  complaint,  but  when  he  left  her,  she 
turned  to  Madame  de  Motteville  and  said,  "I  suffer 
horribly.  There  is  no  single  part  of  my  whole  body 
that  is  not  rent  with  pain."  Then  raising  her  eyes  to 
heaven  she  exclaimed,  "Praised  be  God,  it  is  his  will, 
his  will  be  done — I  submit  to  it  with  all  my  heart; 
yes,  with  all  my  heart."  Yet  in  this  condition  she  took 
the  liveliest  interest  in  all  that  concerned  her  sons  and 
the  King  of  Spain,  and  caused  every  letter  to  be  read 
aloud  to  her  coming  from  Madrid.  Two  nights  before 
her  death  she  bade  good  night  to  her  children  with  a 
haste  unusual  with  her.  It  was  because  she  did  not 
wish  them  to  witness  sufferings  she  could  no  longer 
conceal.  As  soon  as  they  were  gone  she  desired  that 
the  litany  of  the  Passion  should  be  chanted  throughout 
the  weary  hours  of  the  night.  Now  and  then  her 
groans  interrupted  the  solemn  office.  When  her  wo- 
men strove  to  mitigate  her  agony,  she  pushed  them 
away,  saying, 

"My  vile  body  is  given  up  to  the  justice  of  God. 
I  care  not  what  becomes  of  it." 

In  the  morning  the  King,  of  whom  she  was  ever 
devotedly  fond,  and  who  warmly  returned  her  love, 
remained  many  hours  with  her.  That  afternoon  she 
grew  worse.  During  the  night  her  son  Monsieur  hid 
himself  in  the  curtains  of  her  bed,  not  to  leave  her,  as 
she  had  earnestly  desired  he  would  do.  The  next 
morning,  it  was  deemed  advisable  to  administer  ex- 
treme unction.    The  King  and  Queen,  Monsieur  d'Or- 


184  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

l^ans,  Madame  his  wife,  and  Mademoiselle  de  Mont- 
pensier  were  present.  They  went  out  to  meet  the 
Lord's  body  and  to  bear  it  to  her.  After  she  had 
communicated,  a  heavenly  expression  spread  over  her 
countenance,  her  eyes  shone  with  unnatural  brilliancy, 
and  the  colour  returned  to  her  cheeks. 

"Observe  my  dear  mother,"  whispered  the  King, 
who  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  her  bed,  to  Made- 
moiselle de  Beauvais,  "I  never  saw  her  look  more 
beautiful."  Then  she  called  her  children  round  her, 
and  solemnly  blessed  them.  These  four,  her  two  sons 
and  their  wives,  knelt  by  her  bedside.  They  kissed 
her  hands  and  shed  tears  of  a  common  grief  The 
curtains  were  then  closed,  that. the  Queen  might  take 
a  little  rest.  When  they  were  undrawn,  the  film  of 
death  had  gathered  on  her  eyes. 

Beautiful  Saint-Cloud,  enfolded  in  softly  undu- 
lating hills,  its  sheeny  lawns  and  majestic  avenues 
descending  to  the  Seine,  whose  clear  waters  dance 
and  ripple  below  in  the  soft  spring  light; — Saint-Cloud, 
with  its  dimpling  uplands  and  lofty  summits,  on  whose 
topmost  verge  stands  what  was  once  a  Roman  v/atch- 
tower,  looking  towards  Lutetia,  the  ancient  Paris,  now 
a  Grecian  temple  called  the  Lanterne  de  Diog^ne; — 
Saint-Cloud,  dense,  leafy,  forest-like;  yonder  a  deep 
glen,  in  which  the  morning  shadows  lie;  above,  grassy 
meads  of  finest  greensward,  where  the  primrose  and 
the  cowslip,  the  anemone  and  the  foxglove  blossom 
under  scattered  groups  of  noble  trees,  gay  with  every 
shade  of  green;  oaks  yellow  with  new  leaves;  delicate 
beech  and  the  soft  foliage  of  the  tufted  elm;  all  rising 
out  of  a  sea  of  paler-tinted  copsewood.     Midway  on 


DEATH  AND  POISON.  I  85 

the  hill-side,  the  ground  suddenly  falls;  and  the  woods 
melt  into  sculptured  terraces,  on  which  the  spray  of 
many  fountains  catch  and  reflect  the  morning  sun. 
These  terraces  are  again  broken  by  a  magnificent  cas- 
cade, which  dashes  downwards,  to  be  presently  in- 
gulfed by  the  overhanging  trees,  before  it  falls  into 
the  river. 

It  is  early  summer.  The  air  is  full  of  perfume. 
The  scent  of  new-made  hay  and  the  odour  of  dew- 
laden  flowers  are  wafted  from  the  terraces  towards  the 
palace,  lying  in  the  lowest  lap  of  the  hills,  shut  in  by 
hanging  gardens,  its  pillared  portico  basking  in  the 
sunshine. 

From  the  days  of  Gondi,  the  Italian  banker,  the 
friend  of  Zametti,  who  was  more  than  suspected  of 
poisoning  la  belle  Gabrielle — for  both  Gondi  and 
Zametti  had  country  houses  there — Saint-Cloud  was 
a  fair  and  pleasant  place.  Hither  came  Catherine  de 
Medici  to  give  great  fetes  and  banquets,  and  to  visit 
such  of  her  countrymen  as  lived  near  the  palace,  all 
of  them  skilful  Italian  Jews,  dealing  largely  in  money, 
with  which  they  were  ready  to  supply  the  royal  coffers 
— on  exorbitant  interest,  be  it  well  understood — who 
received  her  with  oriental  magnificence,  and  dressed 
out  height,  the  terrace,  and  garden  with  silken  flags 
and  embroidered  banners,  in  the  Italian  style,  to  do 
her  honour.  Within  the  palace  of  Saint-Cloud  was 
struck  down  Henry  III.,  the  last  of  Catherine's  sons, 
the  last  prince  of  the  royal  house  of  Valois,  by  the 
hand  of  Jacques  Clement,  the  Dominican.  Here  Henri 
Quatre  was  proclaimed  king,  and  here,  in  due  process 
of  time,  came  to  live  the  Due  d'Orleans,  brother  of 
Louis  XIV. — Philippe  d'Orleans,  once  a  peevish  child, 


1 86  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

is  now  a  soft,  effeminate  gentleman.  In  person  he  is 
the  replica  of  the  King,  only  in  fainter  colours;  a  water- 
colour  sketch  of  an  original  design  in  oils.  He  lives 
among  his  favourites,  whom  the  world  stigmatizes  as 
gamblers  and  scoundrels,  especially  the  Chevalier  de 
Lorraine,  who  governs  Monsieur  despotically. 

All  the  world  (except  her  husband)  adores  the 
brilliant  Henriette,  Duchesse  d'Orleans,  his  wife  and 
cousin-german,  who,  with  her  mother,  Henrietta  Maria, 
suffered  so  much  at  the  Louvre  from  poverty,  that  they 
lay  in  bed  for  warmth.  Now,  her  brother,  Charles  IL, 
sits  on  the  throne  of  England,  and  she  loves  not  to 
have  the  days  of  her  adversity  recalled.  Henriette 
d'Orleans  is  not  an  absolute  beauty.  Like  her  mother, 
her  features  are  irregular,  and  her  mouth  large,  but 
her  fresh  English  colouring  tells  well  among  the  olive- 
complexioned  ladies  of  the  Court.  She  is  tall,  and 
eminently  graceful.  Her  sunny  smile,  her  ready  wit, 
her  joyous  manners,  win  every  heart  she  cares  to  gain. 
But,  as  we  have  seen,  she  can  be  both  haughty  and 
cruel.  Once  she  had  hoped  to  marry  her  elder  cousin, 
the  King;  but  the  Mancini  girls  stepped  in,  and  she 
was  forced  to  content  herself  with  his  younger  brother, 
Philip,  whom  she  despises  and  dislikes. 

Now  matters  have  grown  worse  than  ever  between 
the  spouses,  for  the  Duke  of  Monmouth — illegitimate 
son  of  Charles  11.  by  Lucy  Waters — has  come  to  Court, 
and  does  not  conceal  his  admiration  for  his  English 
relative,  nor  observe  those  precise  rules  of  etiquette 
needful  at  the  French  Court.  What  makes  matters 
worse  is,  that  Madame,  exasperated  by  her  husband, 
is  defiant,  and  publicly  encourages  his  attentions. 
Monsieur ,  weak-headed   and   irritable ,    complains   to 


DEATH  AND  POISON.  I  87 

everybody.  He  says  he  shall  leave  the  Court,  unless 
Madame  conducts  herself  better.  Madame  rejoins  that 
he  only  persecutes  her  because  she  happens  to  be  aunt 
to  the  Duke  of  Monmouth.  To  spite  Monsieur,  she 
uses  her  influence  with  the  King,  and  Monsieur's 
favourite,  the  Chevalier  de  Lorraine, — who  whispers 
these  tales  about  her  into  her  husband's  ear, — is  packed 
offj  exiled  to  the  sea-girt  fortress  of  the  Chateau  d'lf, 
near  Marseilles.  This  aggravates  Monsieur,  who  treats 
Madame  worse  than  ever.  They  have  fresh  quarrels 
every  day,  during  one  of  which  Monsieur  calls  Ma- 
dame a  ''vaurienne."  Even  when  they  ride  together 
in  the  King's  coach,  Monsieur  must  insult  and  taunt 
his  wife.  "He  believes  in  astrology,"  he  says,  "and  as 
his  horoscope  foretells  he  shall  be  the  husband  of 
many  wives,  and  Madame  looks  ill,  he  hopes  he  shall 
soon  have  a  change."  At  this  rude  speech  Madame 
weeps,  but  says  nothing.  All  this  is  very  bad,  and 
creates  such  a  scandal  that  Louis  interferes;  he  ex- 
postulates with  his  brother. 

The  King,  to  give  Madame  a  little  respite,  appointed 
her  at  this  time  his  ambassadress  into  England,  to 
treat  with  her  brother,  Charles  II.  In  her  suite  she 
carried  the  beautiful  Bretonne,  Louise  de  la  Querouaille, 
who  became  afterwards  so  well  known  in  this  country 
as  the  Duchess  of  Portsmouth. 

After  a  time  Madame  returns  from  England,  bloom- 
ing in  health  and  joyous  in  spirits.  She  cannot  bring 
herself  even  to  affect  common  concern  for  the  death 
of  her  mother, — poor  broken-down  Henrietta  Maria, — 
who  has  just  died  from  taking  an  overdose  of  opium. 
Monsieur  refuses  to  meet  his  wife  at  Amiens,  a  public 
slight  which  nettled  her  exceedingly,  especially  as  the 


1 88  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

Chevalier  de  Lorraine  has  returned  from  banishment, 
and  is  again  at  Saint-Cloud. 

Madame  is  now  twenty-six,  and  as  strong  and 
healthy  as  any  young  woman  can  be.  Very  early  on 
a  certain  morning,  in  the  first  days  of  June,  a  page 
rides  out  of  the  park  gates  of  Saint-Cloud  in  furious 
haste.  He  bears  a  message  of  life  and  death  to  the 
King,  who  is  at  Saint- Germain.  He  spurs  his  steed 
along  the  paved  roads  which  lead  from  palace  to  palace, 
along  the  heights.  The  word  he  carries  is — that  Ma- 
dame is  dying.  Never  did  messenger  of  evil  cause  such 
consternation.  The  King  flies  to  Saint-Cloud ;  he  loved 
the  sweet  princess.  He  is  followed  by  the  Queen,  ac- 
companied by  la  Grande  Mademoiselle,  When  the  royal 
coach  draws  up  under  the  grand  portico,  Valtot,  the 
Court  doctor,  is  there  to  receive  them.  He  says  the 
illness  of  Madame  is  nothing  but  a  violent  attack  of 
colic,  and  is  of  no  consequence  whatever.  But  this 
attack  of  colic  had  seized  Madame  so  suddenly  she 
could  not  bear  to  be  carried  to  her  own  bed,  but  lay 
on  a  little  couch  in  a  recess  of  one  of  the  reception- 
rooms.  A  very  serious  attack  of  colic,  truly.  When 
Maria  Theresa  enters,  she  finds  Madame  in'  convul- 
sions; her  long  hair  streaming  over  her  face  and  pillow, 
her  limbs  cramped,  her  body  contorted,  her  nightgown 
unfastened  to  relieve  her  breathing,  her  arms  bare  and 
hanging  out  of  the  sleeves,  her  face  bearing  every  ap- 
pearance of  approaching  death. 

"You  see  what  a  state  I  am  in,"  she  whispers  to 
the  Queen  between  the  paroxysms.  "Save  me,  oh  save 
me — my  sufferings  are  horrible!" 

The  Queen  kisses  her  hand.  Every  one  was  affected. 
The  King  leans  over  her  with  the  utmost  affection. 


DEATH   AND   POISON.  1 89 

"Surely,"  cries  the  King  to  Valtot,  "you  will  not 
let  her  die  without  help?" 

Except  the  royal  party  no  one  seems  to  care  about 
her.  Monsieur  is  quite  indifferent.  He  laughs  and 
talks  in  the  very  room  where  she  is  lying. 

The  end  came  soon.  In  a  few  hours,  Madame 
died  in  horrible  agony.   Her  corpse  immediately  turned 

black. 

****** 

Louis  XIV.  is  in  his  private  closet  at  Saint-Ger- 
main. He  is  in  his  robe  de  chambre,  and  he  has 
been  weeping;  three  extraordinary  events  for  the  King, 
not  to  hold  his  usual  lever,  to  wear  his  robe  de 
chambre,  and  to  weep. 

A  dreadful  rumour  has  just  reached  him — the 
words  poison  and  murder  have  passed  from  mouth  to 
mouth  about  the  Court.  At  last  he  has  heard  them. 
What! — his  beloved  sister-in-law,  she  who  but  two 
days  before  had  danced  with  him  in  a  ballet,  dressed 
as  Aurora;  she — the  pride  of  his  Court,  the  cynosure 
of  all  eyes — poisoned!  Oh,  horrible!  By  whom  was 
this  poison  givenl  By  his  brother?  Impossible.  By 
one  of  his  disgraceful  favourites  whom  Madame  hated  1 
The  Chevalier  de  Lorraine,  perhaps?  Was  he  the 
murderer?  The  King  cannot  brook  suspense  or  delay. 
He  sends  privately  for  Morel,  the  rnaiire  d" hotel  of  his 
brother.  Morel  comes  trembling;  he  guesses  the  rea- 
son of  the  summons. 

"Morel,"  says  the  King  in  an  unsteady  voice,  "I 
have  sent  for  you  to  tell  me  the  truth.  Now,  on  pain 
of  instant  death,  answer  me.  Who  murdered  my 
sister-in-law?  Presume  not  to  equivocate  or  to  deceive 
me.     Did  the  Duchess  die  by  poison?" 


I  go  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

"She  did,  your  Majesty." 

Louis  shudders.  "By  whose  order  was  it  ad- 
ministered]" 

"By  the  order  of  the  Chevalier  de  Lorraine,"  an- 
swers Morel.  "Poison  was  put  into  a  cup  of  chicoree- 
water,  the  Duchess's  usual  beverage,  by  the  hands  of 
the  Marquis  d'Effiat.  Before  God,  your  Majesty,  I  am 
innocent  of  all  save  the  knowledge  of  this  crime." 

Louis,  seeing  that  Morel  is  about  to  cast  himself 
on  his  knees  before  him,  by  a  stern  gesture  forbade 
it.     He  then  motions  him  to  proceed. 

"The  Duchess,  Sire,  complained  of  thirst;  soon 
after  a  cup  of  chicoree-water — the  cup  of  porcelain, 
which  her  Highness  always  used — was  presented;  she 
drank  its  contents  to  the  last  drop.  Soon  after  she 
was  seized  with  convulsions.  Your  Majesty  knows 
the  rest." 

There  is  a  pause.  "Tell  me,"  asks  Louis,  speaking 
with  a  great  effort,  "tell  me,  had  my  brother — had  the 
Due  d'Orleans  any  part  in  this  crime?" 

"I  beheve  not.  Sire,"  answers  Morel,  shaking  from 
head  to  foot,  for  the  King's  looks  are  not  reassuring. 
"They  dared  not  trust  him;  he  would  have  betrayed 
them.  But  it  was  believed  that  the  death  of  Madame 
would  not  be " 

"Answer  as  I  desire  you,  sir.  Answer  the  ques- 
tions I  address  to  you,  nothing  more,"  interrupts  the 
King,  scowling  at  him,  at  the  same  time  greatly 
relieved  by  hearing  that  his  brother  was  not  an  ac- 
complice. "I  have  heard  what  I  want  to  know.  I  am 
satisfied.  I  will  spare  your  life,  wretched  man,"  and 
he  turns  from  Morel  with  disgust,  "because  you  have 
spoken  the  truth;  but  you  must  leave  France  for  ever. 


DEATH  AND  POISON.  IQI 

Remember,  the  honour  of  princes  is  in  your  hand,  and 
that  wherever  you  fly,  their  vengeance  can  pursue  you. 
Therefore,  be  silent,  if  you  value  your  life." 

The  King  dared  investigate  no  farther;  too  foul 
a  picture  of  his  brother's  life  would  have  been  revealed 
to  public  curiosity.  The  death  of  this  charming,  though 
frivolous  princess,  remained  unavenged,  her  murderers 
unpunished,  and  she  was  soon  forgotten  in  the  dissipa- 
tion of  a  Court  where  the  Sovereign  set  an  example 
of  the  most  heartless  egotism. 

As  for  Monsieur,  nothing  daunted  by  the  suspi- 
cions attached  to  his  name,  and  although  believed  by 
many  to  have  been  a  direct  accomplice  in  Henriette's 
death,  he  determined  to  bring  home  a  fresh  wife  to 
Saint-Cloud  and  the  Palais  Royal.  This  he  did  in 
the  person  of  a  German  princess  (ever  the  refuge  of 
unfortunate  royalty  in  search  of  wives),  a  formidable 
she-dragon  rather,  by  name  Charlotte  de  Bavi^re,  a 
lady  certainly  well  able  to  defend  herself  in  case  of 
need.  What  a  contrast  to  the  feminine,  fascinating 
Henriette!  Charlotte's  autobiography  remains  to  us,  a 
lasting  evidence  of  her  coarseness  of  mind  and  of 
body.     This  is  the  opening  page: — 

"I  am  naturally  rather  melancholy.  When  any- 
thing annoys  me,  I  have  always  an  inflammation  in 
my  left  side,  as  if  I  had  a  dropsy.  Lying  in  bed  is 
not  at  all  my  habit.  As  soon  as  I  wake  I  must  get 
up.  I  seldom  take  breakfast.  If  I  do,  I  only  eat 
bread  and  butter.  I  neither  like  chocolate,  coffee,  nor 
tea.  Foreign  drugs  are  my  horror.  I  am  entirely 
German  in  my  habits,  and  relish  nothing  in  the  way 
of  food  but  the  cuisine  of  my  own  country.  I  can 
only  eat  soup  made  with  milk,   beer,  or  wine.     As  to 


192  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

bouillon,  I  detest  it.  If  I  eat  any  dish  that  contains  it, 
I  am  ill  directly,  my  body  swells,  and  I  am  fearfully 
sick.  Nothing  but  sausages  and  ham  restore  the  tone 
of  my  stomach.  I  always  wanted  to  be  a  boy,"  this 
extraordinary  "Princess"  continues,  "and  having  heard 
that  Marie  Germain  became  one  by  continually  jump- 
ing, I  used  to  take  such  fearful  leaps,  that  it  is  a 
miracle  I  did  not  break  my  neck  a  thousand  times." 

This  was  the  mother  of  the  Regent  Orleans. 

Charlotte  de  Bavi^re  was  walking  one  evening 
alone  in  the  dusk  through  the  almost  interminable 
suite  of  rooms  which  encircled  the  four  garden  fronts 
of  the  Palais  Royal.  Many  of  these  rooms  had  been 
constantly  inhabited  by  her  predecessor,  Madame 
Henriette.  It  was  stormy  weather,  and  the  gathering 
clouds  were  rapidly  darkening  what  little  daylight  was 
left.  The  wind  moaned  among  the  branches  of  the 
trees  without;  it  whistled  through  the  rooms  within, 
swaying  the  rich  curtains  to  and  fro.  The  shutters 
were  not  yet  closed.  The  Duchess  wandered  on  from 
room  to  room  until  she  reached  a  remote  apartment 
on  the  ground-floor,  which  had  been  much  frequented 
by  Madame  Henriette — ^a  garden  pavilion  opening  by 
large  windows  and  a  flight  of  steps  to  a  parterre.  At 
this  window  Charlotte  stood  watching  the  clouds 
passing  over  the  moon  which  had  just  risen,  as  they 
were  drifted  rapidly  onwards,  driven  by  the  wind. 
How  long  she  remained  there  she  could  never  tell. 
All  at  once  a  slight  sound  behind  her,  like  the  rustling 
of  drapery  along  the  floor,  caught  her  ear.  She  turned, 
and  saw  advancing  from  the  door  towards  the  spot 
where  she  stood  a  white  figure,  wearing  the  form  of 
the  late  Duchess,  her  predecessor,  Henrietta  of  England. 


AT   VERSAILLES,  1 93 

She  knew  her  instantly  from  her  portraits.  WhaX 
passed  between  these  two — the  dead  and  the  living 
wife — never  was  told.  Charlotte,  all  her  life  long,  in- 
sisted on  the  perfect  truth  of  this  story,  but  would  say 
nothing  more.  In  time  it  came  to  be  understood  that 
some  awful  secret  connected  with  the  Orleans  family, 
only  to  be  known  to  the  head  of  the  house,  was 
revealed  by  the  phantom. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

At  Versailles. 

The  Duchesse  Louise  de  la  Valli^re,  after  her 
return  from  Chaillot,  lived  much  at  the  H6tel  Biron,  a 
residence  at  Versailles  presented  to  her  by  the  King. 
Her  two  children,  the  Comte  de  Vermandois  and  Made- 
moiselle de  Blois,  were  with  her.  The  Hotel  Biron,  a 
sumptuous  abode,  situated  between  "court  and  gar- 
den," lay  in  a  hollow  close  to  the  yet  unfinished 
Palace  of  Versailles,  on  the  same  side  as  the  reservoir. 
Adjoining  were  the  royal  gardens,  already  planned 
and  partially  completed  by  Le  Notre.  These  gardens, 
with  the  formal  groves  and  symmetrical  thickets  which 
enclose  them,  sloped  downwards  from  the  grand  ter- 
race of  the  southern  front,  and  overshadowed  the 
hotel,  giving  it  a  sequestered,  not  to  say,  melancholy 
aspect.  On  the  other  side  a  wooded  park  stretched 
away  in  the  direction  of  what  was  in  time  to  become 
the  site  of  the  two  Trianons.  The  new  Palace  of 
Versailles  was  as  yet  covered  with  scaffolding;  in- 
numerable workmen  laboured  night  and  day  on  the 
north  and  south  wings.  The  corps  de  iogi's,  of  brick 
and  stone,  was  alone  completed,   and  though  greatly 

Old  Court  Life  in  France.   II  1 3 


194  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

enlarged  and  beautified,  still  retained  those  suites  of 
small  rooms — les  petits  appartements — portions  of  the 
original  hunting-lodge  which  was  so  often  visited  by 
Louis  XIII.  in  his  hunting  expeditions. 

La  Valli^re  lived  a  life  of  extreme  retirement.  She 
rarely  appeared  at  Court,  except  upon  occasions  of 
state,  and  received  only  such  visits,  as  etiquette  ren- 
dered necessary.  Save  the  King,  her  confessor,  and  a 
few  intimate  friends,  she  avoided  every  one.  The 
splendour  of  the  retreat  assigned  her  by  the  King 
pained  and  humiliated  her.  She  was  but  too  conscious 
that  in  permitting  herself  to  be  dowered  and  ennobled 
by  him,  she  was  exposing  herself  to  the  charge  of 
ambition,  arrogance,  and  avarice — she,  who  only 
loved  the  man,  and  who  shrank  abashed  from  the 
sovereign ! 

The  very  letters  patent  by  which  Louis  created  her 
Duchesse  de  la  Valli^re  infinitely  wounded  her.  It 
was  intolerable  to  her  to  be  publicly  addressed  as  "his 
singularly  and  entirely  beloved  Louise  Frangoise  de  la 
Valliere,  possessed  of  His  Majesty's  special  and  par- 
ticular affection."  Vainly  had  she  endeavoured  to 
combat  his  resolution  thus  to  distinguish  her;  vainly 
had  she  entreated  him  to  allow  her  to  sink  into  ob- 
livion, forgotten  by  all  save  himself.  Louis  had 
declared,  and  with  truth,  that  after  her  flight  to 
Chaillot  and  her  return  to  Saint- Germain,  all  mystery 
was  impossible.  He  could  not  bear,  he  told  her,  to 
see  her  continually  suffering  affronts  and  mortifica- 
tions in  his  own  Court,  to  which  her  sensitive  nature 
specially  exposed  her,  and  from  which  even  he  could 
not  screen  her. 

Vainly  did  he  invoke  all  his  authority  as  a  sover- 


AT  VERSAILLES.  1 95 

eign,  all  his  devotion  as  a  man,  to  raise  the  object  of 
his  love  beyond  the  reach  of  calumny.  Vainly  did 
he  surround  her  with  all  that  the  luxury  of  kings,  the 
treasures  of  the  state,  and  the  refinements  of  love 
could  devise  to  reconcile  her  to  her  position.  He 
could  not  stifle  her  conscience.  Louise  could  not 
bring  herself  to  leave  him,  but  she  sank  under  the 
consciousness  of  her  sin. 

When,  by  a  formal  declaration  of  the  parliament, 
her  children  were  legitimatized  and  created  princes  of 
the  blood  royal,  she  was  in  absolute  despair.  Again 
she  conjured  the  King  never  more  to  let  her  name  be 
heard.  But,  selfish  even  to  her,  Louis  commanded 
that  she  should  appear  in  the  Queen's  circle,  and  re- 
ceive the  congratulations  of  the  Court.  A  prey  to 
anxiety  and  remorse,  silent,  yearning,  solitary,  her 
health  gave  way.  Her  lovely  figure  lost  its  round- 
ness, her  violet  eyes  their  lustre.  She  grew  dull,  op- 
pressed, and  tearful,  and  her  lameness  increased. 

The  Comtesse  du  Roule,  formerly  maid  of  honour 
to  Madame  Henriette  d'Orleans  at  the  same  time  as 
La  Valli^re,  was  one  of  the  few  friends  she  still  re- 
ceived. 

They  had  not  met  for  some  time  when  Madame  du 
Roule  called  on  her.  Madame  du  Roule  found  Louise 
seated  alone  in  a  pavilion  overlooking  the  palace 
of  Versailles.  She  was  so  lost  in  thought  she  did  not 
hear  her  friend's  footsteps.  When  she  rose  to  receive 
her  she  looked  more  delicate  and  dejected  than  usual. 

"Dear  Louise,"  said  the  Comtesse  after  having 
saluted  her,  "how  I  grieve  to  see  you  so  unhappy. 
Can  nothing  be  done  to  console  you?  Remember  you 
are  ruining  your  looks.    Do  you  imagine  that  his  Ma- 

13' 


ig6  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

jesty  will  care  for  you  when  you  have  made  yourself 
wrinkled  and  ugly?" 

"Alas,  Celestine,  I  cannot  help  it!  I  ought  not  to 
be  here,"  and  Louise  kissed  her  tenderly,  and  placed 
her  on  a  seat  beside  her.  "This  magnificent  hotel, 
these  royal  servants,  my  luxurious  life — daily  remind 
me  of  my  degradation.  While  I  was  unknown  and 
poor,  lost  among  the  crowd  of  a  great  Court,  I  was 
my  own  mistress.  My  heart  was  my  own  to  bestow. 
Now" — and  she  placed  her  hand  on  her  heart  as  if 
she  suffered — "a  price  seems  put  upon  me.  I  cannot 
bear  it!  Ah,  why  did  I  leave  Chailloti"  and  her  head, 
covered  with  light  baby  curls,  sank  upon  her  bosom; 
and  she  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"But,  Louise,  if  you  love  the  King,"  said  the  Com- 
tesse,  laying  her  hand  gently  on  that  of  La  Valliere, 
"you  must  accept  the  inevitable  position,  else  some 
one  less  scrupulous  and  more  mercenary  than  yourself 
will  certainly  take  it." 

"Ah,  Celestine,  that  fear  is  ever  present  to  me.  It 
is  agony  to  me;  it  keeps  me  here.  Do  not  imagine 
that  I  misunderstand  my  position.  I  suffer  because  it 
is  too  painfully  evident.  Yet  I  love  the  King  too 
much  to  resign  him.  Love!  ah,  more — I  worship 
him!"  and  she  raised  her  head,  and  an  inner  light 
shone  from  her  soft,  grey  eyes,  that  made  them  glow 
with  passion.  "Is  he  not  my  master — my  sovereign!" 
she  continued;  "am  I  not  bound  to  obey  him?  Could 
I  exist  without  him?  Who  else  but  Louis  could  have 
brought  me  back  from  Chaillot?  Who  else  could 
have  torn  me  from  the  altar  to  which  my  heart  still 
clings?  Celestine,  I  know  I  shall  return  to  that  con- 
vent."— The   Comtesse    smiled    incredulously. — "But," 


AT  VERSAILLES.  1 97 

continued  La  Valliere,  "when  I  see  my  faded  face  in 
the  glass,  and  1  know  I  am  faded  and  changed" — 
Madame  du  Roule  shook  her  head  deprecatingly — "I 
tremble — oh,  I  tremble  lest  I  should  lose  him!  I  know 
I  ought  to  rejoice  at  his  loss,"  added  she  in  a  broken 
voice;  "yet  I  cannot — I  cannot!"  and  the  tears  streamed 
from  her  eyes,  and  she  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

"Have  you  perceived  any  difference  in  the  be- 
haviour of  his  Majesty  of  late?"  asked  Madame  du 
Roule,  when  La  Valliere  became  more  composed. 

"Oh,  what  a  question,  Celestine!  Such  an  idea 
never  crossed  my  mind — changed  now,  at  this  time — 
could  it  be  possible?  When  I  spoke  of  losing  him,  I 
meant  in  the  course  of  years — long,  long  years. 
Surely  he  would  not  change  now?"  An  agonized  ex- 
pression came  into  her  face  as  she  spoke,  and  she 
turned  appealingly  towards  her  friend  for  reassurance 
against  what  presented  itself  to  her  as  some  horrible 
dream. 

"I  only  ask  you  this  question  for  your  good,  dear 
Louise,"  answered  the  Comtesse  soothingly,  imprinting 
a  kiss  on  her  pallid  cheek. — La  Valliere  threw  her 
arms  round  her  neck,  and  made  no  reply. — "I  see  you 
are  incapable  of  judging  for  yourself.  If  I  ask  a  pain- 
ful question,  it  is  to  spare  you,  not  to  wound  you. 
Answer  me  honestly,  Louise — is  his  Majesty  changed?" 

A  shudder  passed  over  the  slender  frame  of  La 
Valliere.  For  a  time  she  could  not  bring  herself  to 
reply;  then  hesitatingly  she  answered:  "I  have  fancied 
— but,  oh  heavens!  may  it  be  only  a  fancy — that  his 
Majest}-  finds  his  visits  to  me  more  dull  than  formerly. 
I  am  so  depressed  myself,  that  must  be  the  reason," 


198  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

and  she  bent  her  eyes  upon  her  friend,  hoping  that 
she  would  assent;  but  Madame  di^.  Roule  ojily  listened 
with  grave  attention.  "He  has  sat,"  continued  Louise, 
evidently  forcing  herself  to  a  painful  confession,  "he 
has  sat  for  half  an  hour  at  a  time  quite  silent,  a  thing 
unusual  with  him.  He  has  remarked,  too,  repeatedly, 
on  ray  altered  looks;  he  has  often  regretted  my  low 
spirits.  He  is  most  considerate,  most  tender;  but" — 
and  she  faltered  more  than  ever — "I  fear  that  I  de- 
press him;  and  I  have  tried — "  here  her  voice  dropped, 
and  her  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  a  medallion  por- 
trait of  Louis  that  hung  round  her  neck  by  a  chain  of 
gold.     She  contemplated  it  earnestly. 

"That  is  just  what  I  feared,  Louise,"  and  the  Com- 
tesse  laid  her  hand  softly  on  her  shoulder  to  rouse 
her  from  the  deep  reverie  into  which  she  had  fallen; 
"that  is  precisely  what  I  feared.  If  you  cease  to 
amuse  the  King,  others  will;  he  will  leave  you." 

"Holy  Virgin!"  cried  Louise,  starting  from  her 
chair  and  clasping  her  hands;  "do  not  say  so;  such 
an  idea  is  death  to  me!" 

"Louise,  be  calm;  reseat  yourself,  and  listen  to 
me.  You  rarely  go  to  Court;  but  you  well  know  that 
his  Majesty  is  surrounded  from  morning  till  night  with 
crowds  of  most  fascinating,  most  unscrupulous  women. 
They  follow  him  like  his  shadow;  he  cannot  shake 
them  off — even  if  he  would.  The  poor  Queen,  who 
is  as  stupid  as  an  owl,  sits  in  a  corner,  sighs  and 
sulks,  or  plays  at  cards,  and  loses  thousands  to  pass 
away  the  time.  But  she  says  nothing,  and  has  no  in- 
fluence whatever  over  her  husband.  By-the-way,  she 
is  very  jealous  of  you,  Louise,  and  calls  you  'the  lady 
with  the  diamond  ear-rings.'" 


AT   VERSAILLES.  IQQ 

La  Valli^re  blushed,  then  sighed;  and  again  her 
dreamy  eyes  sought  the  medallion  portrait  of  the  King, 
which  she  still  held  within  the  palm  of  her  hand. 

"Rouse  yourself,  Louise;  believe  me  there  is  need," 
urged  the  Comtesse.  "When  the  King  visits  you  next, 
throw  off  these  gloomy  vapours;  or,  if  you  cannot,  in- 
vite some  friend  to  be  present  and  assist  you  in  enter- 
taining him." 

The  tears  gathered  in  La  Valli^re's  eyes,  and 
slowly  coursed  each  other  down  her  cheeks. 

"Alas!  has  it  come  to  this,  then?  Do  you  indeed, 
Celestine,  counsel  me  to  call  on  another  to  do  that 
which  was  once  my  privilege?  How  he  once  loved 
my  company!  how  he  praised  my  gentleness  and  my 
timidity,  which  charmed  him  inexpressibly,  he  said, 
after  the  boldness  of  the  ladies  of  the  Court." 

"All  this  is  folly,"  said  Madame  du  Roule  im- 
patiently. "The  King  is  robust,  happy,  and  fond  of 
pleasure.  He  delights  in  the  society  of  women.  You 
must,  Louise,  either  return  to  Chaillot,  as  you  say  you 
desire  to  do  (excuse  my  frankne-ss,  dear,  it  is  for  your 
good),  or  you  must  change.  His  Majesty  is  neither  a 
penitent,  nor  ill,  nor  sad.  Do  you  know  any  one  you 
can  invite  here  when  he  comes?" 

"No,"  replied  La  Valli^re  with  a  look  of  infinite 
distress  upon  her  plaintive  face.  "No  one  I  could 
trust.  Besides,  the  King  might  resent  it  as  a  liberty. 
It  is  a  matter  needing  the  nicest  judgment." 

"The  person,  whoever  she  is,"  said  Madame  du 
Roule,  "must  be  sincerely  attached  to  you,  polished, 
agreeable,  and  sympathetic.  She  must  be  good-look- 
ing, and  not  too  old  either;  for  the  King  loves  youth 
and  beauty.     There   is   the   new   lady-in-waiting,   the 


200  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

Marquise  de  Montespan.  You  have  seen  her.  She  is 
a  mere  girl,  just  come  to  Court,  and  belongs  to  no 
clique.  She  is  as  witty  as  a  Mortemart  ought  to  be, 
and  gloriously  handsome.  Such  eyes,  dear  Louise, 
such  colour!  and  there  is  plenty  of  fun,  not  to  say 
malice,  about  her.  I  would  not  have  her  for  an 
enemy!  When  she  was  presented  to  the  Queen,  there 
was  the  most  extraordinary  sensation  at  Court — people 
stood  on  chairs  to  look  at  her." 

"But,  dear  Celestine,  what  a  hag  I  shall  look  be- 
side this  fresh  young  beauty] "  cried  La  Valliere  in 
alarm. 

"You  need  have  no  fear  of  that.  The  King  is 
perhaps  the  only  man  in  the  whole  circle  who  does 
not  admire  her.  You  would  be  quite  safe  to  invite 
her.  She  is  full  of  badinage,  positively  a  child  in  her 
love  of  amusement;  her  lively  sallies  will  help  to  pass 
the  time.  She  desires,  too,  greatly  to  be  presented  to 
you,  and  has  already  conceived  a  romantic  friendship 
for  you." 

"Ah,  Celestine,  are  you  sure  that  this  girl,  this 
Mortemart — they  are  a  dangerous  family — seeks  me 
for  myself  alone?  Are  you  sure  that  she  has  no  deeper 
motive  for  all  these  professions?  I  confess  I  have  my 
misgivings." 

"You  are  quite  mistaken,  Louise.  She  is  a  na'ive 
creature,  clever  indeed,  but  guileless.  You  could  not 
make  a  better  choice.  Take  my  advice,  ask  his 
Majesty's  permission  to  invite  the  Marquise  next  time 
he  comes.  Believe  me,  he  is  perfectly  indifferent  to 
her.  He  will  be  grateful  to  you  for  the  attention;  he 
will  be  amused.  You  will  find  him  return  to  his  first 
ardour,   he  will  be  as  devoted  as  at  first.     You  will 


MADAME  DE  MONTESPAN.  20I 

recover  your  spirits;  you   will    return  to   Court"  (La 
Valli^re  shook  her  head  sadly),  "and  all  will  be  well!" 

CHAPTER   XXL 

Madame  de  Montespan. 

Athanase  de  Mortemart,  Marquise  de  Montespan, 
the  most  beautiful  woman  of  her  age,  was,  at  this  time, 
twenty-two  years  old.  She  was  fair,  but  not  so  fair  as 
La  Valli^re.  Her  features  were  faultless,  and  there 
was  an  aureole  of  youth  and  freshness  about  her  that 
made  her  irresistible.  She  affected  to  be  careless, 
impulsive,  even  infantine;  but  she  was  in  reality 
profoundly  false,  and  could  be  insolent,  cruel,  and 
domineering;  a  syren  or  a  fury,  as  suited  her  humour 
or  her  purpose.  There  was  no  mercy  in  those  volup- 
tuous eyes  that  entranced  while  they  deceived;  no 
truth  in  those  coral  lips  that  smiled  only  to  betray. 

No  sooner  was  she  informed  that  the  Duchesse  de 
la  Valli^re  would  receive  her,  than  she  flew  to  the 
Hotel  Biron.  Louise  was  astounded  at  her  extraor- 
dinary beauty. 

"How  much  I  thank  you.  Marquise,  for  your  good- 
ness in  sparing  a  few  hours  from  the  gaieties  of  the 
Court  to  visit  a  poor  recluse  like  me." 

"On  the  contrary,  Madame  la  Duchesse,  it  is  I 
who  am  grateful;"  and  the  Marquise  kissed  her  on 
both  cheeks.  "Ever  since  I  came  to  Court,  I  have 
longed  to  become  acquainted  with  you.  No  words 
can  express  the  love  and  respect  I  entertain  for  you." 

"Alas!  madame,  I  fear  that  you  cannot  know  me. 
I  deserve  no  respect,"  replied  La  Valli^re  sadly.  "If 
you  can  love  me,  I  shall  be  satisfied." 


202  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

"Love  you,  dear  Duchess!  I  will  devote  my  life 
to  you,  if  you  will  permit  me  such  an  honour,"  cried 
Madame  de  Montespan,  her  eyes  flashing  with  eager- 
ness. "Will  you  allow  me  to  look  on  you  as  an  old 
friend?" 

"I  shall  consider  it  a  privilege,"  replied  La  Val- 
li^re. 

"I  have  so  often  talked  about  you  with  the  Com- 
tesse  du  Roule,  that  I  feel  already  as  though  we  were 
long  acquainted,"  continued  Madame  de  Montespan; 
and  she  seized  La  Valli^re's  small  hand  and  pressed 
it.  La  Valli^re  returned  her  caress  more  quietly. 
"Dear  Duchess,"  exclaimed  De  Montespan  impulsively, 
"I  am  so  young,  so  inexperienced." 

"And  so  -beautiful,"  added  La  Valli^re,  smiling. 

"Well,  I  am  told  so,  madame.  Your  counsel  will 
be  invaluable  to  me.   I  am  yet  but  a  novice  at  Court." 

"I  will -be  a  mother  to  you,"  replied  Louise  meekly. 
But,  in  her  inmost  heart,  she  asked  herself,  "Am  I  in- 
deed so  old,  so  changed,  that  she  can  accept  this  offer 
from  me?  It  seems  but  yesterday  I  was  as  young 
and  as  light-hearted  as  herself!" 

"I  know  little  of  the  Court  now,"  replied  La  Val- 
li^re,  speaking  in  a  very  subdued  voice.  "What  I  do 
know,  can  be  of  little  service  to  you.  Heaven  guard 
you  from  my  experiences!"  and  a  deep  sigh  escaped 
her. 

"  Oh,  Madame  la  Duchesse,  wherever  you  are,  there 
is  the  Court.  Your  modesty  only  adds  to  your  merit. 
We  all  know  you  are  the  dispenser  of  all  favour,  all 
power  —  that  your  word  is  law."  This  was  spoken 
rapidly  by  the  Marquise,  who  all  the  while  kept  her 
eyes  on  the  Duchess  to  study  the  effect  of  her  flattery. 


MADAME  DE  MONTESPAN.  203 

"God  forbid,"  replied  La  Valli^re  coldly;  and  a 
look  of  displeasure  contracted  her  brow  for  an  instant. 
"I  possess  no  power  of  that  kind,  madame.  I  would 
never  permit  myself  to  exercise  any  such  influence 
over  his  Majesty,  I  assure  you." 

The  crafty  Marquise  saw  she  had  made  a  mistake, 
and  instantly  set  about  repairing  it.  She  sighed, 
affected  an  air  of  deep  concern,  and  cast  down  her 
magnificent  eyes.  Then  she  timidly  stretched  out  her 
hand  to  clasp  that  of  La  Valli^re. 

"Will  you  teach  me  your  patience,  your  resigna- 
tion'?    Will  you  teach  me  to  bear  sorrow?" 

"Gracious  heavens!  what  can  a  creature  so  young 
and  brilliant  know  of  sorrow?" 

"Much.  Alas!  too  much!"  The  beautiful  Mar- 
quise raised  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  "  Monsieur  de 
Montespan  never  loved  me.  It  was  a  marriage  arranged 
by  my  sister,  Madame  de  Thiange.  She  sacrificed  me 
to  family  arrangements;  he  to  his  love  of  play — he  is 
a  desperate  gambler.  Worse  still,  he  is  a  libertine." 
She  paused,  and  tried  to  blush.  "Can  I,  dare  I  hope, 
Madame  la  Duchesse,  to  find  a  friend  in  you?  Nay 
more — a  protectress?  May  I  be  permitted  to  ask  your 
counsel?" 

"Reckon  on  me,"  cried  La  Valli^re,  who  was  deeply 
interested  by  this  artful  appeal.  Madame  de  Montespan 
cared  no  more  for  her  husband  than  he  did  for  her. 
"Come  to  me  whenever  you  need  advice,  whenever 
you  want  sympathy  or  protection.  Come  to  me  freely 
— at  all  hours,  at  all  times — this  house  is  yours." 

"But,  Madame  la  Duchesse,  his  Majesty  may  per- 
haps object  to  my  presence  here.     I  do  not  think  he 


204  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

likes  me.     He  has  scarcely  once  addressed  me  during 
the  few  times  I  have  been  at  Court." 

"Ah,  I  will  arrange  that,"  answered  La  Valli^re,  her 
face  all  aglow  with  excitement.  "I  will  manage  that 
you  shall  be  here  when  he  comes.  To  see  you,  dear 
Marquise,  as  I  do  now,  must  be  to  esteem  and  respect 
you.  His  Majesty's  heart  is  so  excellent,  all  his  ideas 
so  great,  so  noble!  You  shall  help  me  to  entertain 
him;  you  have  such  charming  spirits,  such  a  sunny 
smile." 

Madame  de  Montespan  gave  a  little  start.  She 
could  with  difficulty  conceal  the  delight  this  speech 
gave  her,  La  Valli^re  had  so  completely  fallen  into  the 
trap  she  had  laid.  Again  she  kissed  her  thin  white 
hand,  and  pressed  the  long  delicate  fingers  that  lay  so 
confidingly  in  her  own. 

"What  an  honour!"  she  exclaimed.  "How  happy 
I  shall  be  to  serve  you  in  the  smallest  way,  in  return 
for  all  your  goodness!" 

"To  serve  me!"  repeated  La  Valli^re;  gazing  at 
her  vacantly.  "Not  to  serve  me — that  is  impossible. 
Ah,  no  one  can  serv^e  me.  My  life  is  a  long  remorse. 
I  love — with  my  whole  soul  I  love.  That  love  is  a 
crime.  I  can  neither  leave  the  King,  nor  can  I  bear 
to  remain.  God's  image  rises  up  within  me  to  shut 
out  his  dear  form  from  my  eyes.  Alas,  alas! — I  prefer 
him  to  God."  La  Valli^re  melted  into  tears.  She 
sank  back  on  her  chair,  lost  to  all  else  but  the  agony 
of  her  own  feelings. 

Madame  de  Montespan  observed  her  with  a  look 
of  sarcastic  scrutiny.  No  shade  of  pity  tempered  her 
bold  stare.  Her  eyes  were  hard  as  steel,  her  full  lips 
were  compressed. 


MADAME  DE  MONTESPAN'.  205 

"How  I  admire  your  devotion  to  his  Majesty,"  she 
said,  in  the  most  insinuating  voice.  "It  is  extraor- 
dinary." Her  kind  words  singularly  belied  her  cruel 
expression,  but  Louise,  blinded  by  her  tears,  did  not 
observe  this.  "What  astonishes  me  is  that,  feeling  as 
you  do,  you  can  endure  to  remain  here — so  close  to 
the  palace,  almost  living  in  the  Court,  so  long.  In 
such  magnificence  too,"  —  and  she  gave  a  spiteful 
glance  round  the  superbly  decorated  saloon.  "You 
must  have  extraordinary  self-command,"  she  added  art- 
fully, "immense  self-denial.  I  suppose  you  see  his 
Majesty  often,  Madame  la  Duchesse?"  she  asked  this 
question  with  well-affected  indifference,  fixing  her  eyes 
steadily  on  poor  La  Valliire,  who  still  lay  back  in  her 
chair  weeping.  "He  is  always  at  Versailles.  It  must 
be  a  great  trial,  and  with  your  religious  convictions 
too."  As  she  spoke  she  carefully  noted  the  effect  each 
word  produced  upon  La  Valliere. 

"Alas!"  replied  her  victim,  her  cheeks  now  suffused 
with  a  burning  blush,  "I  see  him  almost  daily.  Those 
hours  are  all  that  render  life  endurable." 

"Do  you  really  mean  this,  dear  Duchessi"  returned 
Madame  de  Montespan,  feigning  extreme  surprise.  "I 
should  have  imagined  that  the  refinement  of  your 
nature  would  have  rendered  the  indulgence  of  a  guilty 
passion  impossible." 

"Ah!  I  see  you  despise  me,"  groaned  poor  La 
Valliere,  overcome  by  shame.  "I  cannot  wonder. 
Young  and  pure  as  you  are,  I  must  be  to  you  an  ob- 
ject of  horror." 

"Oh,  Madame  la  Duchesse,  what  a  word!  On  the 
contrary,  I  admire  the  sacrifice  you  make." 

"Alas!"  interrupted  La  Valliere,  "it  is  no  sacrifice. 


206  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

I  cannot  tear  myself  from  him  because — because — " 
she  stopped  for  a  moment,  then  added  hastily,  "I  fear 
to  give  him  pain.  It  seems  to  me  I  ought  to  bear 
anything  rather  than  hurt  one  whose  love  has  raised 
me  so  near  himself.  I  have  not  the  courage  to  wound 
him — perhaps  to  embitter  his  whole  life.  No, — although 
conscience,  duty,  religion  command  it,  I  have  not  the 
courage."     La  Valli^re  turned  aside  and  hid  her  face. 

Madame  de  Montespan  fell  into  a  deep  muse. 
Again  an  expression  of  cruel  determination  passed 
over  her  fair  young  face,  and  she  gave  La  Valli^re 
a  glance  in  which  malice,  anger,  and  contempt,  were 
mingled.  La  Valli^re,  absorbed  in  her  own  sorrow, 
did  not  perceive  it. 

"How  I  grieve  for  you,  dear  friend,"  Madame  de 
Montespan  continued,  speaking  in  her  sweetest  voice. 
"How  I  respect  your  scruples.  Are  you  sure,"  added 
she,  carefully  noting  the  effect  of  her  words,  "that  the 
King  would  really  suffer  from  your  absence  as  keenly 
as  you  imagine?" 

"I  have  never  dared  broach  the  subject,"  answered 
La  Valli^re,  looking  up.  "My  remorse  I  cannot  hide. 
He  knows  I  suffer,  he  sees  I  am  ill.  But  I  would  not 
for  worlds  openly  acknowledge  that  I  wish  to  forsake 
him." 

"Yet,  dear  Duchess,  this  struggle  will  kill  you. 
What  a  balm  to  your  sensitive  feelings  the  solitude  of 
a  convent  would  be!  Among  those  holy  sisters,  in  a 
life  of  prayer,  you  would  find  new  life." 

"I  know  it — I  know!"  cried  La  Valli^re  passion- 
ately; "but  how  to  leave  him — how  to  go?" 

"Perhaps,  Duchess,  I  may  assist  you,"  and  Madame 
de  Montespan  bent,  with  well  simulated  interest,  over 


MADAME  DE  M^jNTESPAN.  20^ 

the  slight  form  beside  her,  and  gazed  inquiringly  into 
the  trusting  eyes  that  were  turned  so  imploringly  upon 
her.  "I  might  be  able  to  place  this  dilemma  before 
his  Majesty  as  your  friend,  dear  Duchess.  A  third 
party  is  often  able  to  assist  in  a  matter  so  delicate. 
If  his  Majesty  would  indeed  suffer  as  poignantly  as 
you  imagine,  your  departure  is  out  of  the  question. 
I  could  at  least  learn  this  from  himself  in  your  in- 
terest." 

Louise  sprang  to  her  feet,  she  threw  her  soft  arms 
round  Madame  de  Montespan,  and  nestled  her  pale 
face  on  her  bosom. 

"At  last  I  have  found  a  real  friend,"  she  cried;  "at 
last  I  have  found  one  who  understands  me.  But," 
and  she  looked  up  quickly  into  the  other's  face,  with 
a  confidence  that  was  most  touching,  "you  will  say 
nothing  to  his  Majesty.  Not  a  word.  Be  here  when 
he  next  comes.  (I  will  ask  his  permission.)  You  will 
then  be  able  to  judge  for  yourself — to  counsel  me.  I 
would  rather  suffer  torture,  I  would  rather  die,  than 
give  him  a  moment's  pain— remember  that,"  and  La 
Valli^re  put  out  her  little  hand  and  pressed  that  of 
Madame  de  Montespan,  whose  face  was  wreathed  with 
smiles. 

"Do  you  think  that  his  Majesty  will  consent  to 
my  presence  here'?"  asked  Madame  de  Montespan, 
carefully  concealing  her  feelings  of  exultation,  for  she 
foresaw  what  the  reply  must  be. 

"I  will  make  him,"  cried  La  Vallii^re.  "I  will 
teach  you  exactly  how  to  please  him — what  to  say 
— never  to  contradict  him — to  watch  the  turn  of  his 
eye,  as  I  do.  The  ice  once  broken,  your  tact,  your 
winning  manners,  will  make  all  easy." 


208  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   FRANCE. 

Madame  de  Montespan  acquiesced.  She  strove 
to  appear  careless,  but  she  knew  that  her  fate  was  on 
the  balance.  If  she  met  the  King  there,  she  was  re- 
solved her  rival  should  not  long  trouble  her, 

"Then  you    will   tell    me   what    I   ought    to   do," 

continued  La  Valli^re.     "I  shall  be  for  ever  grateful 

to  you — you  will  reconcile  me  to  myself!" 

#  *  *  *•  '  * 

When  next  the  King  visited  La  Valli^re,  Madame 
de  Montespan  was  present.  She  was  as  plainly  dressed 
as  was  consistent  with  etiquette.  At  first  she  said 
little,  sat  apart,  and  only  spoke  when  the  King  ad- 
dressed her.  But  afterwards,  gradually  feeling  her 
way,  she  threw  in  the  most  adroit  flattery,  agreed  with 
all  he  said,  yet  appeared  to  defer  in  everything  to 
La  Valli^re.  Sometimes  she  amused  him  by  her  follies, 
and  brought  with  her  a  team  of  mice  she  had  tamed 
and  harnessed  to  a  little  car  of  filigree,  to  run  upon 
a  table;  sometimes  she  astonished  both  La  Valli^re 
and  the  King  by  her  acute  observation,  her  daring 
remarks  and  pungent  satire.  The  King's  visits  to  the 
Hotel  Biron  became  longer  and  more  frequent.  If 
Madame  de  Montespan  was  not  there  he  asked  for  her, 
and  expressed  regret  at  her  absence.  The  Comtesse 
du  Roule  inquired  anxiously  of  La  Valli^re  if  Madame 
de  Montespan  was  useful  to  her.  Reports  had  reached 
her  which  made  her  uneasy.  It  was  said  that  this 
beautiful  young  friend,  whom  she  had  so  unwittingly 
introduced  to  La  Valliere,  had  designs  of  her  own 
upon  the  King;  and  that  she  openly  boasted  that  she 
would  speedily  supplant  the  Duchess. 

Madame  du  Roule  had  also  heard  that  Monsieur 
de  Montespan    had    appeared  at  the    Queen's   circle 


BROKEN-HEARTED.  20g 

dressed  entirely  in  black,  and  that  on  being  asked  by 
the  King  for  what  relative  he  wore  such  deep  mourning, 
had  replied — 

"For  my  wife.  Sire." 

La  Valli^re  laughed  at  this  story,  and  would  not 
listen  to  a  syllable  against  her  new  friend. 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

Broken-hearted. 

It  was  evening.  The  day  had  been  intensely  hot. 
Now,  stormy  clouds  scud  across  the  western  skies,  and 
the  sun  sets  in  a  yellow  haze,  which  Hghts  up  the  sur- 
rounding woods.  Groups  of  stately  elms  that  tuft  the 
park  cast  deep  shadows  upon  the  grass;  their  huge 
branches  sway  to  and  fro  in  the  rising  wind,  which 
moans  among  the  thickets  of  laurels  and  lilacs  separat- 
ing the  grounds  of  the  Hotel  Biron  from  the  royal 
gardens  of  Versailles. 

Louise  La  Valli^re  sat  alone  in  a  gorgeous  boudoir 
lined  with  mirrors  and  gilding.  She  was  engaged  on 
some  embroidery.  As  she  stooped  over  the  frame  on 
which  her  work  was  strained,  her  countenance  bore 
that  resigned  and  plaintive  expression  habitual  to  it. 
She  was  still  graceful  and  pretty,  and  her  simple  attire 
gave  her  the  appearance  of  a  girl. 

As  the  failing  light  warned  her  that  night  was 
approaching,  she  put  aside  her  work,  seated  herself 
beside  an  alcoved  window  which  opened  upon  a  ter- 
race, and  listened  to  the  wind,  each  moment  growing 
more  boisterous  among  the  neighbouring  forests  that 
topped  the  hills  towards  Saint-Cloud. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  Madame  de  Mon- 

O/d  Court  Life  in  France.    11.  14 


2  10  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

tespan  appeared.  After  saluting  La  Valli^re,  she  seated 
herself  in  an  easy-chair  opposite  to  her.  Her  bearing 
was  greatly  changed.  No  longer  subservient  and  flat» 
tering,  she  was  now  confident,  familiar,  and  domineering. 
Her  eyes  wandered  round  the  room  with  a  defiant 
expression.  The  very  tone  of  her  voice  showed  how 
much  she  assumed  upon  the  consciousness  of  favour. 
She  was  more  beautiful  than  ever;  many  jewels  adorned 
her  neck  and  hair  which  she  had  never  worn  before. 

"Louise,"  said  she,  with  an  air  which,  if  intended 
to  be  gracious,  was  only  patronising,  "I  can  only  stay 
for  an  instant.  How  dismal  you  look!  what  is  the 
matter  1" 

Louise  shook  her  head  despondingly.  "Nothing 
more  than  usual." 

"The  Queen  is  just  arrived  from  Saint -Germain; 
I  am  in  attendance.  I  escaped  for  a  few  minutes, 
accompanied  by  the  Comte  de  Lauzun.  We  came 
through  the  gardens  and  the  thicket  by  the  private 
alley.  You  must  not  ask  me  to  stay;  her  Majesty 
may  inquire  for  me.  Lauzun  is  waiting  outside  on 
the  terrace  by  the  new  fountain." 

"Will  he  not  come  in?"  asked  La  Valli^re. 

"No,  he  is  in' attendance  on  his  Majesty,  who  is 
engaged  at  this  moment  with  the  architect.  He  may 
call  for  him  at  any  moment." 

"Do  you  think  I  shall  see  his  Majesty  this  evening?'* 
asked  La  Valli^re  timidly,  looking  up  and  meeting  the 
haughty  stare  of  the  Marquise. 

"I  imagine  not.  It  is  late,  and  his  Majesty  has 
said  nothing  of  such  an  intention." 

"Yet  he  is  so  near,"  murmured  Louise  sadly. 

"Monsieur  de  Lauzun  tells  me  that  the  flotilla  of 


BROKEN-HEARTED.  2  11 

boats  is  ordered  for  this  evening.  There  is  to  be  a 
water  party  on  the  canal;  the  shores  are  to  be  illu- 
minated.   I  trust  it  will  not  rain." 

"How  I  envy  you — not  the  water  party,  but  that 
you  will  see  the  King,"  and  La  Valli^re's  eyes  glis- 
tened. 

"Adieu,  adieu,  ma  belle!  I  can't  keep  Lauzun 
waiting,"  and  Madame  de  Montespan  rose  and  left 
the  boudoir  as  hastily  as  she  had  entered  it. 

Louise  had  also  risen  to  attend  her  to  the  door. 
She  did  not  reseat  herself,  but  stood  gazing  wistfully 
after  her.  She  anxiously  bent  her  ear  to  catch  every 
sound.  Louis  was  close  at  hand;  he  might  still  come. 
A  thrill  of  joy  shot  through  her  at  the  thought.  Once 
the  sound  of  footsteps  was  audible,  and  a  flush  of 
delight  overspread  her  face.  The  sound  died  away, 
and  again  the  night  wind,  sighing  without,  alone  broke 
the  silence.  Her  heart  sank  within  her.  She  rebuked 
herself,  but  in  vain;  spite  of  remorse,  spite  of  self- 
conflicts,  Louis  was  dearer  to  her  than  life. 

It  was  rapidly  growing  dusk;  only  a  little  light  still 
lingered  in  the  room.  A  feeling  of  utter  loneliness,  a 
foreboding  of  coming  misfortune,  suddenly  overcame 
her.  The  shadows  of  approaching  night  seemed  to 
strike  into  her  very  soul.  She  started  at  her  own 
footstep  as  she  crossed  the  parquet  floor  towards  a 
taper  which  stood  upon  a  marble  table,  covered  with 
costly  trifles  given  to  her  by  the  King.  She  stretched 
out  her  hand  to  light  it.  When  she  had  done  so, 
something  sparkled  on  the  floor  close  to  the  chair  on 
which  Madame  de  Montespan  had  been  seated.  Louise 
stooped  down  to  see  what  it  was.  She  at  once  re- 
cognised  some   golden    tablets   which   she   had   often 

14* 


212  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   FRANCE. 

noticed  in  the  hands  of  Madame  de  Montespan.  The 
diamonds,  set  in  the  rich  gold  chasing,  and  the  initials, 
had  caught  the  light.  The  snap  was  open.  It  was  so 
dark  that  La  Valli^re  held  it  close  to  the  taper  in 
order  to  close  the  spring.  In  doing  so  the  tablets 
fell  open — her  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  the  pages. 
An  expression  of  horror  came  into  them  as  she  gazed. 
Could  it  be,  or  was  she  dreaming?  All  the  blood  in 
her  body  rushed  to  her  heart.  She  put  down  the  light 
which  she  had  held,  and,  with  the  tablets  in  her  hand, 
sat  down  to  collect  her  senses,  for  her  head  was  dizzy. 
Could  it  bel  Yes;  it  was  the  handwriting  of  the  King. 
How  well  she  knew  it — each  stroke,  every  little  turn  of 
the  pen,  how  she  had  studied  it!  As  she  passed  page 
after  page  through  her  quivering  fingers,  each  bore 
the  same  well-known  characters.  She  tried  to  read; 
a  film  gathered  over  her  eyes.  Yet  she  must  read  on. 
She  pressed  her  hand  upon  her  brow;  her  brain  seemed 
on  fire.  At  length  a  desperate  resolution  gave  her 
power — she  read.  There  were  verses  of  passionate 
fondness,  signed  "Louis."  The  first  dated  three  months 
back;  the  last  only  yesterday. 

She  would  have  wept,  but  the  thears  froze  ere 
they  reached  her  eyes.  With  a  great  effort  she  collected 
her  scattered  senses  and  began  to  think.  Madame  de 
Montespan  must  have  dropped  these  tablets  on  pur- 
pose. She  saw  it  all.  They  fell  from  her  hand  upon 
the  floor.  Lying  there  she  gazed  at  them  in  silence. 
Then  she  glanced  round  the  room.  It  was  now  quite 
dark;  the  burning  taper  only  served  to  deepen  the 
gloom — Louise  knew  she  was  alone  in  the  world;  the 
King  loved  another. 

With  the  composure  of  despair  she  took  up  a  pen 


BROKEN-HEARTED.  2  I  3 

to  address  him  before  she  fled,  for  fly  she  intuitively 
felt  she  must.  She  was  not  capable  of  reflection,  but 
it  came  to  her  quite  naturally  as  the  only  thing  that 
remained  for  her  to  do,  to  fly;  and  where  could  she 
go  but  to  Chaillot,  to  the  dear  sisterhood? 

"You  have  ceased  to  love  me,"  she  wrote;  "the. 
proofs  are  in  my  hand,  written  by  yourself.  The  last 
time  we  met  you  told  me  how  dear  I  was  to  you;  let 
me  never  hear  your  beloved  voice  speak  another 
language.  I  do  not  reproach  you;  you  have  treated 
me  as  I  deserved.  But  I  still  love  you  as  when  we 
first  met  among  the  woods  of  Fontainebleau.  If  ever 
you  waste  a  thought  upon  me,  remember  that  death 
alone  can  quench  that  love." 

Alas  for  the  weakness  of  human  nature!  La  Valli^re, 
once  within  the  walls  of  Chaillot,  shut  herself  into  the 
same  cell  she  had  before  occupied,  and  repented  that 
she  had  come.  "I  ought  to  have  seen  the  King,  and 
to  have  questioned  him  myself.  Madame  de  Mon- 
tespan  may  have  purposely  deceived  me.  That  she 
must  be  false  I  know  too  well.  Who  can  tell  if  it  is 
not  all  a  device  to  rob  me  of  Louis  1  I  may  myself 
be  but  a  tool  in  her  hands.  If  I  had  seen  him  all 
might  have  been  explained.  He  is  my  master;  I  had 
no  right  to  leave  him.      Oh!  I  wish  I  had  not  come!" 

Thus  she  reasoned.  Her  soul  was  not  yet  wholly 
given  to  God.  Further  trials  await  her.  Breathlessly 
she  waited  for  what  might  happen;  the  creak  of  a 
door  made  her  heart  beat;  every  footstep  made  her 
tremble. 

At  the  end  of  some  hours  the  door  opened  and 
the  Prince  de  Conde  was  announced. 


214  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

"What,  alone!  Once  he  would  have  come  him- 
self," she  murmured. 

Composing  herself  as  best  she  could,  she  rose  to 
meet  him.  The  Prince  placed  in  her  hands  a  letter 
from  the  King;  he  desired  her  to  return  immediately 
to  Versailles  with  the  bearer. 

La  Valli^re  meekly  bowed  her  head  and  obeyed. 

No  sooner  had  La  Valli^re  returned  to  the  Hotel 
Biron  than  the  King  arrived.  He  was  ruddy  with 
health;  his  eyes  flashed  with  the  vigour  of  manhood. 
His  bearing  was  proud,  yet  dignified.  On  his  head 
was  a  hat  trimmed  with  point  lace  and  jewels,  from 
which  hung  a  fringe  of  white  ostrich  feathers,  which 
mixing  with  the  dark  curls  of  his  peruke,  covered  his 
shoulders. 

"Let  us  live  our  old  life  again,"  said  he,  un- 
covering, and  taking  her  hands  in  his.  "I  hate  ex- 
planations. Believe  me,  your  presence  here,  under  all 
circumstances  "  and  he  accentuated  these  words,  "is 
necessary  to  my  happiness." 

"But,  Sire,  Madame  de  Montespan?" 

Louis  became  crimson;  a  momentary  frown  knit 
his  dark  eyebrows. 

"I  desire  you  to  receive  her  as  heretofore,"  he 
replied  hurriedly.  "Louise,  it  is  a  sacrifice  you  must 
make  for  my  sake.  You  will  not  refuse.  It  will 
endear  you  to  me  more  than  ever." 

As  he  spoke  he  looked  at  her  tenderly. 

"Sire,  I  cannot,"  she  replied  firmly,  casting  her 
eyes  on  the  ground. 

"How!  You  dare  to  refuse  me?  Louise,  I  com- 
mand you."  The  King  drew  himself  up;  he  laid  his 
hand  "heavily   on   her   shoulder.     Then,    seeing    how 


BROKEN-HEARTED.  2  15 

wasted  and  frail  she  was,  and  how  her  slight  form 
quivered  under  his  touch,  he  added  in  a  softened 
tone,  "Louise,  I  entreat  you." 

A  deep  blush  suffused  her  cheeks.  Some  moments 
passed  before  she  could  command  her  voice.  "Sire," 
she  replied  at  last,  and  her  white  lips  trembled, 
"Sire,  I  can  never  again  live  the  old  life, — but  I  will 
obey  you." 

The  King  was  about  to  rush  forward  to  embrace 
her.  She  stopped  him  by  a  gesture  gentle  yet  deter- 
mined.    He  fell  back. 

"Sire,  you  love  another.  Hitherto  I  have  quieted 
my  conscience  by  the  conviction  that  I  was  needful 
to  you.  Now  I  know  it  is  not  so.  Take  back  these 
tablets,  Sire.  Can  you  deny  these  verses,  written  by 
your  own  hand  but  a  few  days  since?" 

Louis  stood  before  her,  silenced,  confounded. 
Her  composure  astonished  him.  Before  him  was  La 
Valli6re — hitherto  his  slave,  now  so  determined!  Her 
hand  rested  on  a  table  for  support.  She  was  deadly 
pale,  and  carefully  avoided  his  gaze.  He  was  deeply 
moved. 

"Do  I  not  offer  you  enough?"  said  he. 

"No,  Louis,  it  is  not  enough.     I  will  obey  you; 

I  will  receive  Madame  de "  Her   voice   dropped, 

and  the  hated  name  was  inaudible.  "Nay,  I  will  do 
more;  I  will  again  appear  at  Court  if  you  command 
it,  but  all  hope,  all  joy,  is  dead  within  me." 

She  uttered  these  words  deliberately.  It  was  de- 
spair that  gave  her  courage. 

Then  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  rested  them  for 
the  first  time  on  him,  with  an  agonized  expression. 
"I    must    have    your    undivided    love    as    heretofore, 


2l6  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

or "  and  she  paused.    "I  know  that  my  words  are 

sinful,"  she  added.  "I  have  fled  from  you;  now  I  am 
returned  for  a  little  space." 

Louis  looked  perplexed.  "But,  Louise,  believe  me, 
that  you  are  still  inexpressibly  dear  to  me;  my  heart 
has  wandered,  it  is  true,  but  you  yet  possess  my 
affection,  my  esteem." 

"It  is  not  enough,"  repeated  La  Valli^re  in  a 
low  voice,  "it  is  not  enough.  You  are  turned 
from  me,  you  have  joined  in  deceiving  me;  I  am  sup- 
planted." 

The  tears  sprang  involuntarily  into  the  King's 
eyes  as  he  stood  with  folded  arms  contemplating  her. 
He  did  not  dare  approach  her.  How  strange  it 
seemed  that  one  so  meek  and  gentle  could  be  so  firm. 
Never  before  had  her  lips  uttered  anything  to  him  but 
words  of  tenderness. 

Once  more  she  spoke. 

"As  long  as  you  desire  it,  Sire,  I  will  remain.  It 
is  a  penance  I  shall  offer  up  to  God,  to  remain  and 
to  see  you  love  another."  She  turned  her  large  grey 
eyes  up  to  heaven  as  she  spoke.  "When  you  give  me 
permission,  I  shall  become  a  Carmelite." 

"I  will  never  permit  it!"  cried  Louis,  stamping  his 
foot  upon  the  floor.  A  scowl  passed  over  his  face, 
he  was  angry,  offended,  at  her  obstinacy;  his  im- 
perious will  could  not  brook  contradiction.  "You  have 
never  loved  me!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Sire!"  cried  La  Valli^re.     "Not  loved  you!" 

"No;  you  have  always  preferred  your  religious 
scruples  to  me.  You  have  tormented  me  with  your 
remorse.  You  know  nothing  of  the  intoxication  of 
passion.     Vou  ought  to  have  gloried  in  my  love,   as 


BROKEN-HEARTED.  217 

Others  do,"  he  muttered,  in  a  low  voice,  turning  from 
her. 

"Sire,"  cried  La  Valli^re,  stung  to  the  quick  by 
his  injustice,  "I  am  at  this  moment  forcing  my  con- 
science to  obey  you  and  to  remain." 

"You  are  too  weak,  too  feeble,  for  a  great  pas- 
sion," continued  the  King  hurriedly.  "Others  can 
feel  it,  however." 

"I  have  never  sold  myself  for  ambition.  Sire,  as 
others  do.  I  never  desired  anything  of  you  but  your- 
self, and  I  have  lost  you." 

Louis,  crimson  with  passion,  did  not  reply.  He 
strode  up  and  down  the  room  in  moody  silence.  La 
Valliere  for  a  time  was  also  silent.  Her  eyes  followed 
him.  His  face  was  hard,  and  no  glance  told  her  that 
he  even  pitied  her.  It  was  too  much.  The  strain 
upon  her  gentle  nature  gave  way.  The  pent-up  tears 
rushed  to  her  eyes,  she  burst  into  heart-rending  sobs 
and  sank  upon  a  seat.  The  King  watched  her,  but 
he  spoke  not  a  word.  His  look  was  stem  and  set. 
For  a  while  her  tears  flowed  fast,  and  her  bosom 
heaved  wildly.  Then  she  rose  to  her  feet,  and  ap- 
proached him.  "All  is  over!"  she  said,  in  a  voice  al- 
most inarticulate  with  sobs.  "Never — never — will  I 
trouble  your  Majesty  more.  Your  will  shall  be  now  as  ever 
my  law.  Eternal  silence  shall  cover  my  justly  merited  suf- 
ferings. I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  Permit  me  to  re- 
tire." She  turned  and  left  the  room ;  her  heart  was  broken. 

Bossuet  was  her  director.  To  him  she  applied  for 
counsel.  She  told  him  that  her  very  soul  yearned  for 
a  convent.  Bossuet  questioned  her, — her  passionate 
remorse,  her  penitence,  her  courage,  her  resignation 
touched  him  deeply.     She  seemed  to  be  purified  from 


2l8  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

all  earthly  stain.  Bossuet  advised  her  to  take  six 
months  to  consider  her  vocation,  during  which  time 
she  was  to  speak  to  no  one  of  her  project.  La  Val- 
li^re  bowed  her  head  and  obeyed.  At  the  termina- 
tion of  the  time,  she  publicly  declared  her  intention 
of  becoming  a  Carmelite.  The  King  received  this 
announcement  with  some  show  of  feeling.  He  sent 
Lauzun  to  her,  and  offered  to  make  her  abbess  of  the 
richest  convent  in  France.  He  entreated  her  not  to 
expose  her  feeble  health  to  the  austerities  of  so  severe 
an  order.  La  Valli^re  replied  that  her  resolution  was 
unalterable.  Before  leaving  the  Hotel  Biron  she  asked 
for  a  private  audience  of  the  Queen.  It  was  granted. 
With  a  veil  over  her  face,  and  dressed  in  the  dark 
robes  of  the  order  which  she  was  about  to*  enter,  a 
hempen  cord  round  her  waist,  to  which  hung  a  rosary 
and  cross,  she  entered  the  Queen's  private  apartments 
at  Versailles.  Maria  Theresa  was  alone.  La  Valli^re 
raised  her  veil,  her  face  was  moist  with  tears,  she 
tottered  forward  with  difficulty  and  sank  upon  her 
knees. 

"My  royal  mistress,"  said  she,  in  a  faint  voice, 
"I  come  to  crave  your  pardon.  Oh,  Madame,  do 
not,  I  implore  you,  repulse  me.  Alas!  if  I  have 
sinned  I  have  suffered.  Suffered — oh,  so  bitterly,  so 
long!  In  a  few  hours  I  shall  be  forgotten  within  a 
convent." 

The  Queen,  a  woman  of  the  most  kindly  and 
womanly  feelings,  was  deeply  affected. 

"Ah,  Madame  la  Duchesse,"  said  she,  "I  have 
learnt  to  know  how  much  I  owe  you.  My  life  was 
much  happier  when  you  were  at  Court.     I  beg  you  to 


BROKEN-HEARTED.  2  19 

believe  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  you  again  about  my 
person." 

"Your  Majesty  honours  me  beyond  expression," 
answered  La  Valli^re,  curtseying  to  the  earth. 

"Does  the  King  know  of  your  departure,  Madame 
la  Duchesse'?" 

"He  will  know  it  after  I  have  acquainted  your 
Majesty." 

"Surely  he  will  not  consent?"  asked  the  Queen. 

La  Valli^re  shook  her  head — "My  mind  is  made 
up,  Madame.  If  I  live  for  one  year,  I  shall  be  a  pro- 
fessed Carmelite." 

"I  am  sorry,"  replied  Maria  Theresa  simply,  "very 
sorry.  If  my  good  wishes  can  serve  you,  Madame  la 
Duchesse,  you  have  them  most  sincerely.  Should  you, 
however,  carry  out  your  intention,  allow  me  to  pre- 
sent you  with  the  black  veil.  It  is  a  public  mark  of 
respect  I  would  willingly  pay  you." 

La  Valli^re  was  so  overcome  she  could  not  at 
once  reply,  then  kissing  the  Queen's  hand  which  she 
held  out  to  her,  she  said,  "Your  Majesty's  goodness 
makes  me  hope  that,  as  you  have  deigned  to  pardon 
me,  I  may  still,  by  a  life  of  penitence,  reconcile  myself 
with  God.     I  most  humbly  thank  you." 

This  interview  over,  she  returned  to  Versailles. 
She  distributed  her  possessions  as  though  she  were 
already  dead.  She  assembled  her  servants  in  her 
oratory  and  earnestly  craved  their  forgiveness  for  all 
that  she  had  said  or  done  amiss.  She  exhorted  them 
to  be  devout,  to  keep  the  fasts  of  the  Church,  and  to 
serve  God  She  was  thus  occupied  until  past  mid- 
night. Towards  morning  she  called  her  coach,  and 
bid   her   people   drive    her   quickly   towards   Chaillot. 


220  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

As  she  passed  along  she  gazed  eagerly  on  the  bloom- 
ing country  for  the  last  time.  It  was  the  month  of 
June.  The  orchards  were  laden  with  the  promise  of 
coming  fruit;  the  newly  mown  grass,  sparkling  with 
morning  dew,  made  the  meadows  glisten,  the  birds 
carolled  in  the  hedge-rows,  and  the  hills,  embowered 
in  forest,  rose  green  against  the  azure  sky,  Louise 
was  still  young]  it  was  her  last  look  on  that  world 
which  had  once  been  so  pleasant  to  her. 

At  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  she  arrived  at  the 
convent.  The  Superior,  accompanied  by  all  the  nuns, 
apprised  of  her  arrival,  was  in  waiting  to  receive  her. 

"My  mother,"  said  La  Valli^re,  kneeling  at  her 
feet,  "I  have  used  my  liberty  so  ill,  that  I  am  come 
to  give  it  up  into  your  hands," 

Her  long  and  beautiful  hair  was  cut  off  before 
she  entered  the  convent  as  a  novice.  A  year  after- 
wards she  made  her  profession.  The  Queen  and  the 
whole  Court  were  present — all  save  the  King  and 
Madame  de  Montespan.  Bossuet  preached  his  cele- 
brated sermon.  Then  the  Queen  Maria  Theresa 
descended  from  the  tribune,  where  she  had  been 
seated  in  company  with  La  Grande  Mademoiselle ,  and 
invested  her  with  the  black  veil.  She  kissed  her 
tenderly  on  the  forehead  as  she  did  so. 

La  VaUi^re,  now  Sister  Louise  de  la  Misdricorde, 
made  an  exemplary  nun.  She  wore  horse-hair  next 
her  skin,  walked  barefoot  along  the  stone  pavement 
of  the  convent,  and  fasted  rigorously.  She  died  at 
sixty-six,  wasted  to  a  skeleton  by  her  austerities.  Her 
end  was  peace. 


M.  DE  LAUZUN  AND   "MADEMOISELLE."  22  1 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 
M.  de  Lauzun  and  "Mademoiselle." 

On  the  line  of  rail  to  Orleans,  two  and  a  half 
leagues  from  Paris,  is  the  station  and  village  of 
Choisy  le  Roi.  Of  the  enchanting  abode  once  erected 
here,  on  the  verge  of  grassy  lawns  bordering  the 
Seine,  nothing  has  been  left  by  the  revolution  but  a 
fragment  of  wall,  built  into  a  porcelain  manufactory. 

Choisy  Mademoiselle ,  afterwards  to  be  called  by 
Louis  XV.  Choisy  le  Roi,  was  built  by  Mademoiselle 
de  Montpensier,  daughter  of  Gaston,  Due  d'Orleans, 
under  the  advice  of  Le  Notre.  It  was  to  serve  as 
a  summer  retreat  from  the  gloomy  splendours  of  the 
Luxembourg;  2^  folie  where  she  might  spend  the  sum- 
mer heats,  try  her  English  horses,  train  her  hounds, 
row  on  the  river,  tend  her  aviaries,  and  watch  her 
flowers.  Here,  freed  from  all  scrutiny,  she  could  be 
imperious  or  devout,  childish  or  solemn,  vain  or 
humble,  as  suited  her  fickle  humour;  here  she  could 
lay  traps  to  catch  obstinate  emperors  who  refused  to 
wed,  fast  upon  the  most  delicate  morseis,  bonder  the 
Court  when  neglected  by  her  Jupiter-cousin  the  King, 
and  cultivate  such  remains  of  beauty  as  still  lingered 
on  her  oval  face  and  almond-shaped  blue  eyes. 

At  Choisy  all  was  formal,  to  suit  the  taste  of  its 
mistress.  The  corps  de  logis,  a  pavilion  in  one  story, 
a  mass  of  lofty  windows,  was  flanked  on  either  side 
by  conservatories  and  orangeries  which  masked  the 
offices.  Within,  the  entire  south  front  was  occupied 
by  a  gallery,  with  frescoed  ceiling  and  cornice;  the 
walls  covered  with  crimson  satin,  on  which  hung  the 


222  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

family  portraits  of  La  Grande  Mademoiselle.  Each 
name  was  written  under  each  portrait,  so  that  all 
persons  looking  on  them  might  read  the  lofty  lineage 
of  this  grand-daughter  of  Henry  the  Great.  At  one 
extremity  of  the  gallery  was  a  chapel ,  at  the  other  a 
writing-cabinet.  Here,  the  victories  and  conquests  of 
Louis  XIV.,  painted  in  miniature,  by  Van  der  Meulen, 
were  arranged.  These  miniatures  also  were  inscribed 
with  names  and  dates.  A  likeness  of  his  Majesty  on 
horseback,  when  a  youth,  hung  over  the  chimney- 
piece.  Beyond  the  writing-cabinet  was  a  billiaid- 
room,  as  well  as  a  suite  of  private  apartments  devoted 
to  the  use  of  the  Princess  herself  Without,  broad 
terraces  were  balanced  by  flights  of  steps,  statues, 
vases,  and  trophies;  jets  d'eau  rose  out  of  marble 
basins,  and  precisely  arranged  flowers  and  orange- 
trees  adorned  the  walks.  There  was  a  park  of  a 
hundred  acres,  with  woods  on  either  hand,  trimmed 
to  an  exact  resemblance  of  each  other.  Choisy,  like 
its  mistress,  was  in  perpetual  costume  de  Cow ;  nothing 
but  the  river,  towards  which  the  gardens  sloped,  was 
as  nature  had  made  it.  Not  even  La  Grande  Made- 
moiselle could  prevent  the  soft  summer  breezes  from 
rippling  its  silvery  current,  the  sun  from  playing 
vagrant  pranks  upon  its  wavelets,  or  the  water-lilies 
from  growing  in  wild  profusion  under  the  shadow  of 
its  tree-shrouded  bays. 

Besides  Choisy,  Mademoiselle  possessed  the  Palace 
of  the  Luxembourg,  before-mentioned,  the  Castles  of 
Eu,  d'Aumale,  De  Thiers,  Dombes,  Chatellerault,  and 
Saint-Fargeau ,  each  surrounded  by  such  vast  estates, 
that  no  one  except  the  well-known  Marquis  de  Car- 
rabas  ever  had  the  like. 


M.  DE  LAUZUN  AND   "MADEMOISELLE."  2  23 

Mademoiselle,  although  firmly  convinced  that  the 
world  was,  in  great  measure,  created  for  her  particular 
enjoyment,  was  wonderfully  exercised  in  her  mind  at 
the  difficulty  she  experienced  in  securing  that  much- 
coveted  game  (for  which  she  had  hunted  all  her  life), 
an  emperor,  or  even  a  king.  She,  however,  appeased 
her  wounded  vanity  by  the  conviction  that  she  must 
be  considered  too  masculine  in  understanding  to  con- 
sort with  any  living  sovereign.  Whatever  happened, 
this  royal  lady  never  by  any  possibility  could  blame 
herself 

About  this  time,  a  Gascon  gentleman  of  the 
Caumont  family,  whose  name  has  been  already 
casually  mentioned,  began  to  make  much  noise  at 
Court.  He  was  Captain  of  the  Royal  Guards,  whose 
service  was  the  special  care  of  his  Majesty's  person, 
and  Field-Marshal,  also  Governor  of  Berry.  Loaded 
with  honours,  he  had  dropped  the  undistinguished 
patronymic  of  Peguillem  altogether,  and  was  known 
as  the  Comte  de  Lauzun.  The  King,  whose  under- 
standing was,  as  a  matter  of  course,  superior  to  every 
one,  had  said  when  he  was  first  presented  to  him  at 
the  Comtesse  de  Soisson's,  that  "Lauzun  possessefd 
more  wit  and  penetration  than  any  man  in  France." 
This  opinion  was  accepted  as  law.  That  Lauzun  was, 
by  reason  of  his  Gascon  blood,  cunning,  heartless, 
and  mercenary,  as  well  as  audacious,  insinuating,  and 
brave,  is  only  saying  that  he  was  what  all  Gascons 
(going  up  to  Court  to  make  their  fortunes)  were.  But 
that  he  was  above  the  ordinary  hungry  adventurer,  the 
sequel  will  show.  Holding  Court  trumps  in  his  hand, 
he  knew  how  to  play  them  well.  He  was  a  little 
man,   slight  and  well  formed,   with  a  dull,  fair  com- 


2  24  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

plexion,  reddish  hair,  keen  penetrating  grey  eyes,  and 
a  most  insolent  bearing.  No  one  could  call  him 
handsome,  no  one  could  deny  that  he  could  be 
morose,  vindictive,  and  cruel.  He  spoke  sharp,  hard 
words,  affected  a  certain  soldierly  swagger,  and  was 
capable  of  being  alike  cringing  and  impertinent. 

Mademoiselle  was  no  longer  young.  The  unsuc- 
cessful chase  after  an  emperor  had  occupied  a  large 
portion  of  her  life.  She  lived  at  Court,  and  was 
necessarily  thrown  much  into  the  company  of  Lauzun, 
who  affected  an  indifference  towards  her,  a  rough  and 
ready  manner  that  piqued  her  vanity.  So  she  came 
gradually  (no  crowned  head  appearing  in  the  matri- 
monial horizon,  only  relays  of  dukes  and  insignificant 
princes)  to  find  Lauzun  fascinating  and  original.  The 
pleasures  of  the  Court  palled  upon  her;  she  became 
pensive,  even  sentimental,  and  often  retired  to  bowery 
Choisy  to  meditate  on  the  chances  and  changes  of 
life. 

Finally  she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  marriage 
alone  would  restore  her  spirits.  But  marriage  without 
an  emperor]  It  was  a  great  come  down,  certainly. 
Yet  there  are  no  laws  but  the  laws  of  passion  in  the 
kingdom  of  love.  Mademoiselle  reasoned  that  her 
sublimity  was  so  exalted  she  could  raise  any  man  to 
her  own  level.  In  a  word,  she  discovered  that  all 
.  earthly  bliss  depended  on  her  marriage  with  Monsieur 
de  Lauzun. 

Now  Mademoiselle  was,  as  we  have  seen,  a  very 
determined,  even  masculine,  lady.  She  had  pointed 
the  guns  of  the  Bastille  against  her  cousin  the  King; 
she  had  all  but  led  an  army  into  the  battle-field. 
Having  come  to  a  determination,   she  proceeded  in- 


M.  DE  LAUZUN  AND  "MADEMOISELLE."  225 

continently  to  carry  it  out.'  But  she  encountered  un- 
contemplated difficulties.  The  crafty  Lauzun,  who 
read  her  like  a  book,  became  suddenly  respectful  and 
silent.  As  she  approached,  he  receded.  Mademoiselle 
was  extremely  embarrassed,  and  more  violently  in  love 
than  ever.     This  was  precisely  what  Lauzun  intended. 

We  are  in  the  Queen's  apartments  at  the  Louvre, 
within  a  stately  retiring-room.  The  walls  are  covered 
with  white  brocade,  on  which  is  a  gold  pattern. 
They  are  panelled  by  gilt  scroll  work.  On  the  carved 
ceiling,  which  is-  supported  by  pilasters,  is  painted 
Apollo  ushering  in  the  day.  The  furniture  is  of 
green  damask;  colossal  chandeliers  of  crystal  and  gilt 
bronze  are  reflected  in  mirrors  placed  at  either  end- 
Over  the  mantelpiece,  which  is  carved  and  richly  gilt, 
hangs  a  portrait  of  the  King. 

Mademoiselle,  attended  by  her  lady  of  honour, 
enters  about  the  time  of  the  Queen's  lever.  She  finds 
Lauzun  in  a  corner  talking  with  the  Comtesse  de 
Guiche.  He  takes  no  notice  of  her,  though  she  gives 
a  slight  cough  to  attract  his  attention.  She  does  not 
like  it.  Besides  not  saluting  her,  which  he  ought  to 
have  done,  he  seems  quite  to  have  thrown  off  his 
usual  insouciance,  and  to  find  the  conversation  of  the 
Comtesse  de  Guiche  much  too  interesting.  Mademoi- 
selle retires  into  the  recess  of  a  window,  and  watches 
him. 

Lauzun  continues  talking  with  unaccustomed  eager- 
ness. He  still  takes  no  notice  whatever  of  Mademoi- 
selle; her  royal  highness  has  therefore  to  wait — yes, 
actually  to  wait;  a  thing  she  has  never  done  in  her 
life  before  to  an  inferior — until  he  has  done  talking. 

But  when  he  does  approach  her,  he  advances  with 

Old  Court  Life  in  France.    //.  ^5  • 


226  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

such  a  noble  air,  he  is  in  fier  eyes  so  handsome,  that 
"To  me,"  she  says  in  her  memoirs,  "he  seemed  the 
very  master  of  the  world."  Not  only  does  she  forgive 
him,  but  her  whole  heart  goes  out  to  meet  him,  and 
her  pulses  throb  violently — so  violently,  indeed,  she 
is  obliged  to  wait  for  a  moment  ere  she  can  address 
him. 

Lauzun  makes  her  a  ceremonious  bow,  places  his 
hand  on  his  embroidered  waistcoat  and  point-lace 
jabot,  at  the  place  where,  if  he  had  one,  his  heart 
would  have  been,  casts  down  his  eyes,  and  awaits  her 
pleasure. 

Now,  it  must  be  specially  borne  in  mind  that  Ma- 
demoiselle, much  against  her  will,  may  be  now  called 
"c«  old  maid"  which  condition  may  reasonably  excuse 
her  ardour. 

"I  flatter  myself.  Count,"  she  says — blushing  at  her 
own  backwardness,  yet  infinitely  gratified  at  the  same 
time  by  Lauzun's  attitude  of  respectful  attention — "I 
flatter  myself  you  take  some  interest  in  me."  She 
looks  up,  expecting  some  outburst  of  protestation  at 
the  studied  humility  of  her  language.  Lauzun,  his 
hand  still  resting  somewhere  in  the  region  of  where 
his  heart  ought  to  be,  bows  again,  but  does  not  reply. 
"You  are  a  faithful  friend,  I  know,  Monsieur  de 
Lauzun,"  continues  Mademoiselle,  confused  at  his 
perfect  composure,  and  evolving  in  her  own  mind  the 
impossibility  of  saying  all  that  she  desires  if  he  con- 
tinues silent.  "You  are,  too,  a  man  of  the  world — " 
she  hesitates.  Still  Lauzun  is  mute.  "Even  his  Ma- 
jesty has  the  highest  respect  for  your  judgment.'^ 
Again  she  pauses,  flushes  crimson,  not  only  on  her 
cheeks,   but    over   her  well-formed   neck  and    snowy 


M.  DE  LAUZUN  AND  "MADEMOISELLE."  22 J 

shoulders.  Lauzun  makes  a  slight  inclination,  but 
otherwise  maintains  the  same  attitude.  Mademoiselle's 
voice,  ordinarily  rather  shrill  and  loud,  is  low  and 
persuasive.  She  looks  at  him  inquiringly,  and  stretches 
out  both  her  hands  as  if  to  claim  his  special  attention 
to  what  she  is  about  to  say.  Lauzun  appears  not  to 
observe  her  anxiety,  and  fixes  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 
"Will  you  favour  me  with  your  advice,  Monsieur  de 
Lauzun?  I  shall  esteem  it  a  great  kindness."  Her 
tone  is  almost  one  of  supplication. 

"I  am  deeply  sensible  of  the  honour  your  highness 
does  me,"  replies  Lauzun,  disengaging  his  hand  from 
his  waistcoat,  and  again  bowing,  this  time  very  stiffly. 
"On  what  subject  may  I  venture  to  advise  your  royal 
highness?" 

Mademoiselle  is  conscious  she  has  something  very 
extraordinary  to  say.  She  hoped  that,  seeing  her 
evident  perplexity,  Lauzun  would  have  helped  her. 
Not  a  bit.  She  must  trust  entirely  to  herself.  Her 
pride  comes  to  her  help.  She  remembers  who  she  is, 
draws  herself  up,  steadies  her  voice,  and  takes  a  few 
steps  nearer  to  where  he  is  standing. 

"It  is  a  very  delicate  subject,  Monsieur  de  Lauzun; 
nothing  but  my  confidence  in  your  honour  and  your 
discretion  would  otherwise  induce  me  to  broach  it. 
But "  and  she  falters. 

Lauzun  does  not  stir,  only  with  the  slightest  per- 
ceptible motion  he  raises  his  eyebrows,  which  Made- 
moiselle perceives,  and,  fearing  that  he  is  impatient, 
speaks  quickly. 

"Do   you   know — can  you  tell  me "  here  she 

pauses;  then  observing  that  he  makes  a  hasty  gesture, 
she   forces    herself   to   proceed — "you,    Monsieur    de 

IS* 


228  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

Lauzun,  who  are  the  confidant  of  the  King,  can  you 
tell  me  whom  he  purposes  me  to  marry?" 

Having  said  thus  much  she  is  so  overcome  she 
would  like  to  sink  into  a  chair.  There  is  none  at 
hand;  besides,  she  dare  not  leave  Lauzun,  so  eager  is 
she  for  his  reply. 

He  raises  his  head  and  fixes  his  deep-set  eyes  upon 
her  with  a  bold,  cold  gaze. 

"I  assure  you,  madame,  I  am  absolutely  ignorant 
of  his  Majesty's  pleasure  in  this  matter.  I  am  per- 
suaded, however,  from  what  I  know  of  the  elevation 
of  his  sentiments  on  all  subjects,  that  he  would  desire 
you  solely  to  follow  your  own  inclination."  A  mali- 
cious twinkle  comes  into  his  eye,  and  he  smiles  almost 
as  it  seems  in  mockery. 

Mademoiselle  becomes  more  and  more  discomposed. 
Never  had  an  interview  been  so  difficult  to  manage. 
"Surely,"  she  thinks,  "Lauzun  is  not  laughing  at  me!" 
Yet  she  is  too  much  in  love  to  drop  a  conversation 
which  she  is  determined  shall  lead  to  an  explanation 
of  his  feelings  towards  herself.  All  this  Lauzun  is 
aware  of;  he  rejoices  in  intensifying  her  perplexity. 

"Monsieur  de  Lauzun,"  she  says  timidly,  playing 
with  one  of  the  soft  curls  that  falls  upon  her  neck, 
"I  hoped  you  could  have  told  me.  I  earnestly  desire 
your  acquiescence  in  the  choice  I  am  about  to  make. 
You  must  necessarily  be  interested  in  it." 

An  appealing  look  comes  into  her  face;  but  she 
tries  in  vain  to  catch  Lauzun's  eye.  "At  my  age,"  and 
she  sighs  profoundly,  "persons  rarely  marry  contrary 
to  their  inclinations.  Every  crowned  head  in  Europe 
has  solicited  ray  hand.  Until  lately,  however,  my 
'heart  was  free."     She  sighs  again,  and  gazes  implor- 


M.  DE  LAUZUN  AND  "MADEMOISELLE."  229 

ingly  at  him.  He  must  understand  her,  she  tells  her- 
self, but  as  his  looks  are  bent  on  the  ground  she  can- 
not tell.  Lauzun  inclines  his  head,  and  seems  to  await 
her  further  communications. 

"I  have  seen  no  one  to  please  me  until  lately," 
she  goes  on  to  say;  "I  love  my  country,  Monsieur  de 
Lauzun;  I  think  I  could  only  be  happy  with  a  coun- 
tryman— one — "  (something  rises  in  her  throat,  and 
stops  her  utterance;  she  clears  her  voice) — "one  whom 
I  know  well  —  whom  I  esteem  —  whose  person  and 
manners  are  agreeable  to  me;  one  with  a  high  place 
at  Court,  and  who  possesses  the  esteem  of  my  cousin, 
the  King."  All  this  is  spoken  significantly  and  with 
marked  emphasis. 

A  delicious  glow  runs  through  her  frame.  Breath- 
lessly she  awaits  his  reply. 

"Your  highness  speaks  with  admirable  sense,"  an- 
swers Lauzun  with  great  deliberation.  "How  many  il- 
lustrious persons  about  the  Court  would  be  honoured 
by  knowing  your  gracious  sentiments.  Permit  me, 
madame,  to  make  them  public." 

"Not  for  the  world,  Monsieur  de  Lauzun,"  exclaims 
Mademoiselle  hurriedly.  "I  am  speaking  to  you  strictly 
in  confidence."  Her  countenance  has  fallen,  and  she 
has  turned  very  white.  Lauzun  watches  her  under  his 
eyelids,  and  enjoys  her  sufferings. 

"Why  should  one  so  happy  as  your  highness 
marry  at  all?"  he  adds,  seeing  that  she  does  not 
speak. 

"I  am  happy,  certainly,  if  riches  and  royal  birth 
can  confer  happiness."  she  replies  thoughtfully;  "but 
there  are  drawbacks.  Monsieur  de  Lauzun.  I  wish  to 
confer  my  wealth  upon  a  worthy  individual." 


230  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

("Myself,  for  instance,"  says  Lauzun  to  himself; 
"I  shall  be  delighted  to  spend  it;  indeed,  I  intend  to 
do  so.") 

"Many  people,"  continues  Mademoiselle,  "at  tliis 
very  moment  wish  me  dead  in  order  to  inherit  it," 
and  a  sigh  escapes  her.  "I  am  very  lonely,  Monsieur 
de  Lauzun,  very  lonely."  Her  face  assumes  a  melting 
expression,  such  as  he  had  never  seen  on  it  before. 
What  could  she  say  to  make  him  understand  her] 
Thinking  of  this  she  sighs  again  very  audibly.  Lauzun 
knits  his  brows  and  affects  to  be  lost  in  thought. 

"That  is  a  most  serious  consideration,  your  high- 
ness. I  admit  it  had  not  before  occurred  to  me.  Per- 
mit me  time  to  consider  of  it  before  I  tender  any 
further  advice." 

A  thousand  hopes  rush  into  Mademoiselle's  mind. 
^*He  understands  me,"  she  tells  herself,  "but  my  ex- 
alted position  alarms  him.  He  will  propose  to  me 
when  next  we  meet." 

At  this  moment  the  Queen  entered  the  with- 
drawing-room. 

CHAPTER   XXIV. 
A  Fair  Suitor. 

The  following  evening  at  her  Majesty's  circle 
Lauzun  approaches  Mademoiselle.  A  smile  is  on  his 
face,  and  his  manner  is  less  formal.  Mademoiselle  seats 
herself  apart  in  a  recess,  and  signs  to  him  to  place 
himself  beside  her,  "Now,  now,  he  will  speak,"  she 
repeats  to  herself. 

"Are  you  prepared,  M.  de  Lauzun,  to  give  me 
your  opinion   on  my    approaching    marriage  1"     The 


A  FAIR  SUITOR.  23  I 

tone  of  her  voice  is  low  and  sweet;  her  hand  falls 
near  his;  he  draws  a  little  back. 

"Believe  me,  madame,  each  word  you  have  uttered 
is  graven  on  my  heart.  I  have  founded  many  chdteaux 
d'Espagne  on  them." 

Mademoiselle  is  enchanted.  "This  is  the  moment," 
thinks  she.  She  grows  hot  and  cold  by  turns,  and 
with  difficulty  conceals  her  delight. 

"Pray  speak  to  me  with  frankness,  Count.  I  want 
to  discuss  with  you  the  most  important  event  of  my 
life — my  marriage." 

"I  am  deeply  gratified  at  being  appointed  presi- 
dent of  your  council,  madame."  Lauzun's  manner 
suddenly  changes.  He  is  all  at  once  disagreeable, 
stiff,  and  supercilious.  He  settles  his  ruffles  over  his 
hands,  and  pulls  at  his  moustache.  "Allow  me  to  say, 
however,  that  no  one  in  the  world  could  enter  into 
this  delicate  matter  with  more  profound  respect  for 
you  than  myself." 

Mademoiselle  is  strangely  baffled;  spite  of  herself 
the  conversation  is  drifting  away,  she  knows  not 
whither.  She  cannot  decide  if  Lauzun  is  gratified  or 
offended  at  her  advances — a  strange  dilemma  for  a 
love-sick  princess  worth  many  millions! 

"Pray,  Count,  let  us  resume  our  discussion  of 
your  own  opinion  on  the  matter  in  question.  Do  you 
advise  me  to  marry  1" 

"Your  merit,  madame,  is  so  great,  I  know  no  one 
worthy  of  you."  He  speaks  with  the  utmost  indiffer- 
ence. "Why  resign  your  present  brilliant  position?" 
he  adds. 

"Is  he  mocking  met"  she  thinks,  "or  is  he  bash- 
full"     As   this   doubt  presents   itself.    Mademoiselle's 


2;^2  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

heart  sinks  within  her.  "What  can  I  say  to  make  him 
understand  me?"  she  murmurs.  When  she  next  speaks 
a  sUght  asperity  is  apparent  in  her  tone.  She  is  not 
used  to  be  trifled  with;  she  cannot  brook  it  even  from 
Lauzun.    She  rises  impatiently. 

"I  beg  you  will  remember,  Monsieur  de  Lauzun, 
that  I  consider  no  sacrifice  too  great  to  ensure  me  the 
husband  I  have  described  to  you." 

Lauzan  feels  that  he  may  go  too  far;  he  instantly 
assumes  a  look  of  intense  humility. 

"Such  a  man  as  you  describe,  madame,  ought  to 
esteem  himself  supremely  blest.  He  should  love  you 
more  than  life!"  He  speaks  with  enthusiasm.  Made- 
moiselle thrills  with  rapture;  her  cheeks  mantle  with 
blushes.  "At  last  the  moment  is  come,"  she  thinks. 
She  reseats  herself  and  turns,  with  breathless  impa- 
tience, towards  Lauzun,  who  meets  her  ardent  gaze. 
Lauzun  instantly  checks  himself;  the  cold  look  is  again 
on  his  face. 

"Where  will  you  find  such  a  man?"  he  says. 
"Will  your  highness  permit  me  to  search  for  one?" 

''Monsieur  de  Lauzun,  if  you  are  in  earnest  you 
need  not  search  long,"  she  replies  significantly. 
Could  she  then  have  caught  his  eye,  all  would  have 
been  told. 

"Pray  inform  me  on  whom  your  choice  has  fallen, 
madame?  We  may  both  have  fixed  on  the  same 
person." 

Had  she  dared  she  would  have  openly  named 
himself,  but  he  is  suddenly  grown  so  cold  and  dis- 
tant, she  is  utterly  discomfited.  Lauzun  crosses  his 
arms  on  his  breast  and  falls  into  a  muse. 

"Have   you  ever,   madame,    contemplated  the  ad- 


A  FAIR   SUITOR.  2^^ 

vantages  of  becoming  a  nun?"  he  asks  abruptly. 
"Devotion  is  often  the  refuge  of  single  women." 

Mademoiselle  is  aghast.  Her  hands  drop  help- 
lessly to  her  side,  her  head  sinks  on  her  bosom. 

"Good  heavens!"  she  thinks,  "what  evil  fortune 
pursues  me?  Will  no  man  ever  understand  I  love 
him?" 

"Upon  the  whole,  madame,  I  advise  you  to  re- 
main as  you  are."  Lauzun's  voice  is  harsh,  his  sallow 
face  is  flushed.  He  is  conscious  of  the  difficulty  of 
his  position,  with  an  ardent  princess  beside  him,  whose 
passion  must  be  irritated  to  the  utmost  in  order  to 
induce  her  to  overleap  all  obstacles.  "It  is  too  soon 
to  yield,"  he  thinks. 

"I  have  the  honour  to  tell  you,  Monsieur  de 
Lauzun,  I  have  selected  marriage,"  rejoins  Mademoi- 
selle haughtily.  She  is  fast  losing  her  temper.  Lauzun 
instantly  assumes  a  deeply  penitent  air. 

"For  myself,"  he  says  meekly,  "my  only  pleasure 
is  in  the  service  of  his  Majesty.  I  am  fit  for  nothing 
else."     As  he  speaks  his  dejected  look  sends  a  pang 

to  her  heart.     "If  I  leave  his  Majesty,  it  will  be " 

he  stops,  Mademoiselle  listens  breathlessly — "it  will 
be  to  enter  a  monastery.  Nothing  but  my  attachment 
to  my  royal  master  restrains  me." 

"Blessed  Virgin!"  ejaculates  Mademoiselle,  clasp- 
ing her  hands.    "Who  could  have  believed  it?" 

"I  shall  never  marry,"  continues  Lauzun.  He 
hangs  down  his  head,  apparently  overcome  with 
despondency. 

"How? — Why?"  demands  Mademoiselle  eagerly. 
"For  what  reason?" 


234  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

"Marriage  has  often  been  proposed  to  me,  your 
highness,  but  there  are  insurmountable  difficulties." 

"Name  them,  I  entreat  you,"  she  cries  impe- 
riously. 

"My  wile,  madame,  must  be  a  paragon  of  virtue, 
or  I  should  murder  her.  I  dread  the  morals  of  the 
Court.  Not  the  wealth  of  the  Indies  would  tempt 
me  to  marry  and  to  doubt.  I  would  not  unite 
myself  to  a  princess  of  the  blood,  under  such  con- 
ditions." 

"Noble  heart!"  exclaims  Mademoiselle  aside. 
"You  can  very  easily  find  the  virtuous  lady  you 
seek,"  she  adds  aloud,  in  a  voice  tremulous  with 
suppressed  passion.  She  turns  towards  Lauzun,  and 
for  a  moment  touches  his  hand  which  lies  close  to 
her  own.  "My  choice  is  made,"  she  adds  resolutely. 
"I  shall  announce  it  to  his  Majesty  to-morrow." 

"Fpr  heaven's  sake,  forbear!"  exclaims  Lauzun, 
with  real  earnestness,  starting  to  his  feet;  "you  make 
me  tremble.  You  must  say  nothing.  It  concerns  my 
honour,  madame,"  and  he  smote  upon  his  breast. 
Mademoiselle  turns  her  glowing  eyes  upon  him.  "My 
honour  as  your  adviser,  madame,  I  mean,"  adds 
Lauzun,  correcting  himself  and  speaking  in  an  altered 
tone.  But  all  his  self-command  could  not  wholly  con- 
ceal the  triumph  he  felt  at  having  so  successfully 
acted  his  part.  "As  your  adviser,  madame,  I  forbid 
you  to  speak  to  the  King.  The  time  is  not  yet  come. 
(I  hold  her,"  he  says  to  himself,  "she  is  mine!") 

At  this  moment  a  page  enters  and  desires  him  to 
ioin  his  Majesty,  who  is  walking  up  and  down  in  the 
quadrangle  with  some  gentlemen.  Mademoiselle  is  as 
much  at  a  loss  as  ever  to  make  Lauzun  understand 


A  FAIR   SUITOR.  235 

her.  Just  as  a  crisis  approaches,  they  are  always  in- 
terrupted. She  longs  to  ask  him  why  she  should  not 
tell  the  King'?  Once  or  twice  she  tried  to  do  so,  but 
Lauzun  invariably  turned  the  conversation  into  such  a 
channel  as  eflectually  silenced  Mademoiselle,  who 
spite  of  her  pride  was  easily  abashed. 

At  last  she  hits  upon  an  expedient. 

"I  have  the  name  of  my  intended  written  on  this 
slip  of  paper,  Monsieur  de  Lauzun,"  she  says,  and  she 
offers  him  a  sealed  note  at  their  next  meeting. 

Lauzun  draws  back,  stares  at  her,  and  frowns.  "I 
do  not  wish  to  take  the  note,  madame.  I  feel  that  it 
forebodes  me  misfortune,  my  heart  beats  so  violently." 
Still  he  stretches  out  his  hand  and  takes  the  paper 
which  she  offers. 

This  takes  place  in  the  morning,  at  the  Queen's 
lever.  Maria  Theresa  is  on  her  way  to  mass,  accom- 
panied by  Mademoiselle,  who  is  in  a  state  of  inde- 
scribable perturbation.  She  had  seen  Lauzun  open  the 
note,  and  read  the  paper,  on  which  is  written  the 
magic  words,  "//  is  your 

This  great  princess,  arrived  at  a  mature  age,  and 
as  proud  as  Lucifer,  trembles  like  a  leaf  during  mass, 
and  requires  all  the  restraints  of  etiquette  to  hide  the 
tumult  of  her  feelings.  After  mass  the  Queen  goes  to 
visit  the  Dauphin,  who  is  ailing.  Mademoiselle  awaits 
her  return  in  a  gallery  outside.  Lauzun  is  there.  He 
leans  against  the  chimney-piece,  lost  in  thought.  A 
bright  fire  of  logs  is  burning  on  the  hearth.  His 
■countenance  betrays  nothing.  He  neither  seeks  nor 
avoids  her.  Mademoiselle  rubs  her  hands,  advances 
to  the  fire  and  shivers. 

"I  am  paralyzed   with   cold,"   she  says,  in  a  soft 


236  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

voice.    She  bends    over  the  fire.    Lauzun  bows  and 
retires  some  steps  to  make  room  for  her. 

"I  am  more  paralyzed  than  your  highness,"  he 
says  stiffly,  looking  round  to  see  that  no  one  is  near. 
His  face  is  inscrutable.  "I  have  read  the  note  you 
did  me  the  honour  to  place  in  my  hands.  I  am  not, 
however,  so  foolish  as  to  fall  into  such  a  snare;  your 
highness  is  amusing  yourself  at  my  expense.  You 
conceal  the  real  name  of  your  intended  husband  and 
substitute  mine.  You  do  this  to  mortify  me.  You 
are  very  cruel."  He  gives  her  a  stealthy  look.  Ma- 
demoiselle staggers  backwards;  she  supports  herself 
against  a  chair.  She  does  not  know  whether  to  laugh 
or  cry.  Then  feeling  that  the  moment  so  longed  for 
is  come,  she  collects  herself  and  speaks  with  dignity. 

'.'I  Assure  you.  Monsieur  de  Lauzun,  the  name  you 
have  read  on  that  paper,  is  the  name  of  the  man  i 
mean  to  marry." 

Lauzun  shakes  his  head  incredulously. 

"Not  only  so,  Monsieur  de  Lauzun,  but  I  intend 
immediately  informing  the  King  of  my  intention, 
unless,"  adds  she,  in  a  tender  voice,  "you  forbid  me." 
She  would  have  liked  to  have  gathered  into  one  glance 
all  the  love  she  felt  for  him.  To  have  told  him  her 
passionate  admiration  for  his  person,  her  respect  for 
his  magnanimity  in  rejecting  the  splendid  position  she 
offered  him.  She  would  have  liked  to  do  this;  but, 
in  the  face  of  such  exalted  independence,  her  womanly 
delicacy  takes  alarm.  She  can  neither  look  at  him 
nor  utter  a  single  word. 

"Madame,"  says  Lauzun  at  length,  addressing  her 
with  the  utmost  solemnity,  "you  have  ill  recompensed 
the  zeal   I  have   shown   for  you.     Henceforth,  I  can 


A  FAIR  SUITOR.  237 

approach  you  no  more.  Great  as  is  my  respect  for 
your  highness,  I  cannot  permit  myself  to  be  exposed 
to  ridicule.  You  are,  madame,  making  me  the  butt 
of  the  whole  Court." 

Mademoiselle  starts  violently,  then  she  places  her 
hand  upon  his  arm.  "Lauzun,"  she  says,  and  her 
voice  sinks  into  a  tone  of  the  humblest  entreaty,  "I 
beseech  you  to  understand  me.  My  resolution  may 
seem  hasty,  but  your  great  qualities  excuse  it.  I  have 
made  up  my  mind.  I  shall  ask  his  Majesty's  per- 
mission to  marry  you." 

At  last  she  has  spoken!  The  woman  has  overcome 
the  princess.  Lauzun  stands  before  her  with  down- 
cast eyes — a  victim,  as  it  seems,  to  his  own  perfection. 
The  time  was  now  come  that  he  must  coquet  no  more. 
Placing  his  hand  on  his  heart,  he  made  her  a  deep 
obeisance. 

"But,  madame,  I  am  only  a  Gascon  gentleman. 
None  but  a  sovereign  is  a  fit  consort  for  your  highness." 

"I  will  make  you  a  prince,  Count,"  rejoins  she, 
with  a  tender  look.  "I  will  create  you  Due  de  Mont- 
pensier.    I  have  wealth  and  dignities;  both  are  yours." 

Her  eyes  sparkle,  her  cheeks  burn.  An  air  of 
mingled  power,  pride,  love,  and  exultation  overspreads 
her  face.  Her  tall  figure  is  raised  to  its  full  height; 
she  clasps  the  hand  of  Lauzun;  he  raises  it  to  his 
lips. 

"Your  highness  overwhelms  me,"  he  whispers,  with 
genuine  feeling.  For  an  instant,  Lauzun — the  cold, 
heartless  Lauzun — felt  her  influence.  Could  he  really 
love  this  exalted  lady,  who  had  thus  honoured  him? 
He  looks  fixedly  into  her  face,  now  transfigured  by 
the  deep  passions  that  stirred  her  inmost  soul.    Could 


238  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

he  love  her?  He,  a  penniless  cadet,  of  an  insignificant 
name?  Etiquette  set  at  defiance,  a  princess  at  his  feet, 
enormous  wealth,  a  royal  dukedom  in  his  grasp!  Could 
he  love  herl — For  a  moment  a  rush  of  wild  thoughts 
whirls  through  his  brain.  She  worships  him.  He 
could  make  her  life  a  long  enchantment.  He  was 
about  to  kneel  to  her,  to  thank  her,  even  to  press  her 
in  his  arms.  But  he  stops  and  steadies  himself.  No 
— she  is  too  old;  wrinkles  gather  about  her  mouth, 
her  fair  hair  is  partly  grey,  the  bloom  has  long  faded 
from  her  cheeks,  the  fire  of  youth  from  her  eye.  What 
is  she  but  an  old  maid,  inflamed  by  a  furious  passion 
for  a  man  greatly  younger  than  herselfl  Should  he, 
the  brilliant  Lauzun,  bum  incense  on  the  altar  of  such 
an  idol?  Impossible.  He  would  be  the  laughing-stock 
of  the  Court!  His  lively  imagination  grasps  the  whole 
situation  in  an  instant.  Lauzun's  baser  nature  con- 
quered. The  momentary  warmth  fades  out  of  his  heart 
for  ever.     He  heaves  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Monsieur  de  Lauzun,"  says  Mademoiselle,  far  too 
much  occupied  with  her  own  raptures  to  heed  or  to 
understand  what  was  passing  in  his  mind,  "you  sigh. 
Fear  nothing;  I  will  obtain  his  Majesty's  permission 
for  our  speedy  marriage." 

Would  Louis  XIV.  consent  to  the  marriage  of  his 
cousin-german  with  a  simple  gentleman?  Would 
Madame  de  Montespan,  with  whom  Lauzun  had  in- 
trigued, fall  into  this  arrangement,  or  would  she  use 
her  all-powerful  influence  against  it?  These  are  awful 
questions.  Lauzun's  blood  ran  cold  when  he  thinks 
of  it.  Madame  de  Montespan  is  treacherous,  and  as 
vindictive  and  clever  as  himself.  Louvois,  too,  the 
minister,  is  his  enemy. 


A  FAIR   SUITOR.  239 

Mademoiselle,  however,  ignorant  of  these  dangers, 
acted  without  a  moment's  hesitation.  She  wrote  a  long 
letter  to  the  King,  announcing  her  choice,  and  asking 
for  his  consent.  Lauzun  saw  and  approved  the  letter. 
It  was  then  confided  to  Bontemps,  who  carried  it  to 
his  Majesty. 

Louis  did  not  vouchsafe  an  immediate  answer. 
He  sent  word  to  his  cousin  that  she  had  better  reflect 
well  upon  what  she  was  about  to  do.  But  the  counte- 
nance of  the  royal  Jupiter  beamed  upon  his  favourite 
Lauzun  with  undiminished  warmth,  and  he  was  most 
affectionate  to  his  cousin.  Both  naturally  drew  favour- 
able auguries.  Mademoiselle  was  now  steeped  in  the 
sweets  of  an  acknowledged  passion.  Lauzun  con- 
descended to  be  gracious,  spite  of  some  little  eccen- 
tricities such  as  not  always  approaching  her,  or  even 
replying  to  her  when  she  addressed  him  —  eccen- 
tricities attributed  by  her  to  his  great  modesty  and 
discretion.     Still,  the  King  had  not  given  his  consent. 

One  evening  his  Majesty  played  late  at  ecarte,  so 
late  indeed  that  it  was  two  o'clock,  and  he  was  still 
at  the  table.  Mademoiselle  sat  nodding  on  a  brocaded 
fauteuil  beside  the  Queen.  She  was  determined  to 
see  every  one  out,  and  to  speak  to  her  royal  cousin. 

She  longed  so  much  to  salute  her  lover  Due  de 
Montpensier;  to  behold  him  raised  to  the  Olympian 
circle  that  surrounded  the  family  god.  She  longed 
for  many  things;  life  had  of  late  become  a  delightful 
mystery  to  her.  Each  day  unfolded  some  link  in  that 
delicious  chain  that  bound  her  for  ever  to  her  adored 
Lauzun! 

At  last  the  Queen  rose.  As  she  passed  by  she 
whispered  to   Mademoiselle — "You   must  have   some 


240  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

very  important  business  with  the  King  to  remain  so 
late.     I  can  sit  up  no  longer." 

"Madame,"  she  replied,  rising,  "it  is  a  matter  of 
life  and  death  to  me.  If  I  succeed  it  will  be  an- 
nounced at  the  council  to-morrow  morning." 

"Well,  my  cousin,"  said  the  poor  Queen,  who  never 
understood  anything  that  was  going  on,  and  was 
not  intended  to  do  so,  "I  wish  you  all  success.  Good 
night." 

By-and-by  Louis  left  off  playing.  He  rose,  and 
walked  up  to  Mademoiselle.  "What,  cousin,  you  are 
still  here?  You  did  not  accompany  her  Majesty?  Do 
you  know  the  time?    It  is  two  o'clock." 

"Sire,  I  wish  to  speak  a  few  words  to  you." 

The  King  yawned,  gave  a  glance  towards  the  door, 
then  leant  wearily  against  the  wall.  "Excuse  me  for 
to-night,  cousin,"  said  he;  "I  am  tired." 

"I  shall  not  be  long,"  urged  Mademoiselle;  "but 
do  be  seated,  or  I  feel  I  cannot  address  you  properly." 

"No,  I  am  very  well  thus.  Speak,  my  cousin.  I 
am  all  attention." 

This  was  an  awful  moment.  Mademoiselle's  heart 
thumped  audibly  against  her  side.  Her  throat  became 
so  parched  no  words  would  come. 

"Sire,"  she  began,  and  her  voice  failed  her.  The 
King  watched  her;  he  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  women 
by  this  time,  and  understood  their  ways.  He  knew 
she  was  about  to  speak  to  him  of  Lauzun,  and  smiled. 

"Take  time,  my  cousin,"  said  he  graciously;  "you 
are  agitated;  take  time." 

"Sire,"  again  began  poor  Mademoiselle  —  fortu- 
nately her  voice  now  came  to  her,  and  she  continued 
— "I  want  to  tell  you  that  the  resolution  I  had  the 


A   FAIR   SUITOR.  24 1 

honour  of  submitting  to  your  Majesty  respecting  the 
Comte  de  Lauzun  is  unshaken.  I  shall  never  be  happy 
unless  I  am  his  wife." 

"Yet,  my  cousin,  you  have  hitherto  been  most 
severe  on  those  princesses  who  have  married  beneath 
their  rank — your  step-sister,  Madame  de  Guise,  for 
example.  Lauzun  is  certainly  the  most  complete  grand 
seigneur  of  my  Court;  but  I  still  advise  you  to  reflect 
well  upon  the  step  you  are  taking.  I  do  not  wish  to 
constrain  you." 

Mademoiselle  clasped  her  hands;  her  face  beamed. 

"I  love  and  esteem  you  beyond  measure,  my  cou- 
sin," added  Louis,  taking  her  hands  in  his.  "I  shall 
rejoice  to  have  you  always  about  my  person.  But  be 
careful;  Lauzun  has  many  enemies.  I  do  not  forbid 
you;  but  remember,  a  sovereign  is  often  forced  to 
act  against  his  will.  This  intended  marriage  is  now 
little  known;  do  not  give  time  for  all  the  world  to 
discuss  it.  Let  me  warn  you  and  Lauzun  to  be  cau- 
tious; above  all,  lose  no  time,  my  cousin.  Take  my 
advice,  lose  no  time." 

"Oh,  Sire!"  exclaimed  Mademoiselle  in  an  ecstasy, 
**if  you  are  with  us,  who  can  be  against  us?" 

Louis  embraced  her,  and  they  parted. 

Any  one  less  infatuated  than  Mademoiselle,  less 
arrogant  than  Lauzun,  would  have  understood  the 
King's  friendly  caution,  "/o  lose  no  timer  But  they 
were  both  too  intoxicated  with  their  different  feelings 
to  heed  the  advice  of  the  really  well-meaning  Louis. 
Lauzun  lost  his  head  completely.  He  accepted,  day 
after  day,  the  magnificent  presents  sent  him  by  Made- 
moiselle. He  ordered  fresh  equipages,  horses,  jewels 
and  plate.    He  was  created  Due  de  Montpensier.     He 

Old  Court  Life  in  France.   11.  16 


242  OLD   COURT   LIFE   IN   FRANCE. 

shrank  from  the  amorous  ardour  of  the  doting  Princess, 
but  he  gloried  in  her  munificence.  Still  unmarried, 
he  revelled  in  it  without  a  drawback!  He  was  a  mean, 
selfish  fellow,  Monsieur  de  Lauzun,  like  all  men  who 
marry  heiresses  they  do  not  care  for.  The  words  of 
warning  came  again,  and  this  time  to  his  ear.  ^'Marry 
while  you  can"  was  said  to  him.  Mademoiselle,  still 
enacting  the  masculine  part,  urged  an  early  day,  but 
she  urged  in  vain. 

CHAPTER   XXV. 

Under  a  Couch. 

About  this  time  Lauzun,  soon  to  become  cousin- 
german  to  the  King,  solicited  the  distinguished  post  of 
Grand  Master  of  the  Artillery.  Already  he  commanded 
the  Dragoons,  and  was  captain  of  the  hundred  gen- 
tlemen pensioners  who  guarded  the  person  of  the 
Sovereign;  but  this  was  not  enough.  The  King  readily 
promised  him  the  appointment;  but  time  went  on,  and 
no  warrant  came.  Lauzun  grew  uneasy — specially  as 
each  time  he  recalled  the  subject  the  King  evidently 
evaded  it.  What  did  this  mean?  Who  was  his  enemy? 
He  spoke  to  the  favourite,  Madame  de  Montespan, 
although  he  was  well  aware  he  had  given  her  good 
cause  for  hating  him.  Madame  de  Montespan,  with 
the  most  winning  smiles,  promised  him  her  assistance. 
Still  no  warrant  came.  Again  Lauzun  ventured  to 
recall  his  promise  to  the  King  at  his  lever,  while  hand- 
ing him  his  feathered  hat  and  cane.  Louis  turned  away 
his  head,  addressed  the  Due  de  Roquelaure,  and  affected 
not  to  hear  him.  There  was  treachery  somewhere! 
Lauzun   shrewdly   suspected   Madame   de   Montespan. 


UNDER  A  COUCH.  243 

He  would  know  for  certain  that  very  day,  and  if  it 
were  so  he  would  unmask  her.  He  offered  a  heavy 
bribe  to  one  of  her  confidential  attendants,  well  known 
to  him  in  the  days  of  their  liaison,  and  prevailed  on 
her  to  introduce  him  into  the  saloon,  where  the  King 
would  visit  Madame  de  Montespan  before  supper,  that 
very  afternoon.  Louis,  who  told  his  mistress  everything, 
and  consulted  her  about  all  important  appointments, 
would  be  sure  to  mention  Lauzun's  renewed  application 
of  that  morning.  At  all  events  Lauzun  would  chance 
it.  He  knew  the  lady  was  from  home,  having  seen 
her  start,  in  company  with  the  Queen  and  Mademoiselle 
de  Montpensier,  for  a  drive  to  Saint-Cloud.  He  had 
handed  his  betrothed  into  the  royal  coach.  No  sooner 
had  they  started  than  Lauzun  was  admitted  into  Madame 
de  Montespan's  apartments  by  her  friendly  attendant. 
She  assisted  him  in  his  arrangements,  and  finally  con- 
cealed him  under  a  large  couch  covered  with  fine 
tapestry,  on  which  Madame  de  Montespan  usually  sat. 
It  was  an  undignified  proceeding.  He  had  to  divest 
himself  of  his  periwig  and  plumed  hat,  take  off  his 
richly  embroidered  satin  coat,  tuck  up  his  shirt 
sleeves,  and  crouch  upon  his  hands  and  knees  on  the 
dusty  floor.  But  these  are  trifles  to  a  man  bent  upon 
revenge ! 

Shortly  before  the  hour  of  supper,  which  their 
Majesties  eat  in  public,  Lauzun  recognized  Madame 
de  Montespan's  voice  within  her  boudoir.  Then  he 
heard  steps  approaching.  He  could  swear  to  the  King's 
solemn  tread  and  the  sound  of  his  cane  tapping  on 
the  floor. 

Almost  before  he  could  settle  himself  in  the  best 
position   for  listening  the  King   was   announced.     At 

i6» 


244  OLD  COURT  LIFE    IN  FRANCE. 

the  same  moment  Madame  de  Montespan  entered 
from  her  boudoir  on  the  other  side  of  the  saloon.  He 
heard  her  advance  to  the  door  and  receive  the  King. 
She  kissed  his  hand;  Louis  saluted  her  on  both  cheeks, 
and  led  her  to  the  couch  under  which  Lauzun  lay 
concealed. 

"Your  Majesty  looks  vexed  this  afternoon,"  said 
Madame  de  Montespan  in  a  softly  modulated  voice. 
"What  has  happened?" 

"I  am  exceedingly  annoyed  about  that  affair  of 
Lauzun,"  replied  Louis,  seating  himself  in  an  arm-chair. 
"He  has  again  applied  to  me  about  the  Artillery  this 
morning." 

Madame  de  Montespan  leant  back  indolently  among 
the  cushions,  little  dreaming  who  was  crouching  beneath 
so  near  her,  and  placed  her  feet  upon  an  embroidered 
stool.  A  feather  fan  hung  at  her  side,  and  as  the 
weather  was  warm  she  took  it  up  and  moved  it  languidl}' 
to  and  fro,  gazing  absently  at  the  King,  who  awaited 
her  reply. 

"Did  you  hear  what  I  said,  Athanaise?  I  am  annoyed 
about  Lauzun." 

"I  heard,  Sire;  but  what  can  I  say?  You  already 
know  my  opinion  on  that  subject.    Need  I  repeat  it?" 

This  was  said  in  a  careless  manner,  as  she  sank 
back  deeper  among  the  cushions. 

(Lauzun  was  all  ears.  "She  has  given  her  opinion 
then,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I  think  I  can  guess  what 
it  was.") 

"I  promised  Lauzun  the  place,  remember,"  continued 
the  King.  "He  certainly  merits  it;  but  your  friend 
Louvois  will  not  hear  of  his  appointment.   He  torments 


UNDER  A  COUCH.  245 

me  every  time  I  see  him  to  give  the  Artillery  to  the 
Comte  de  Lude." 

"I  certainly  advise  you,"  returned  the  lady,  glancing 
at  herself  in  an  opposite  mirror  and  arranging  the 
fringe  of  small  curls  that  lay  on  her  forehead,  "to  be 
guided  by  the  advice  of  so  experienced  a  minister  as 
Louvois,  rather  than  listen  to  such  an  empty-headed 
coxcomb  as  Lauzun." 

("Ah,  that  is  the  opinion  you  have  of  me,  is 
it?"  muttered  Lauzun.  "Now  I  know  you,  you 
traitress!") 

"But  remember,  Athanaise,"  said  the  King,  taking 
out  his  snuff-box  and  applying  the  powder  to  his  nose 
with  great  deliberation — "remember  his  attachment  to 
me,  his  courage." 

"His  attachment  to  you.  Sire!"  and  Madame  de 
Montespan  smiled  ironically.    "Do  you  believe  in  iti" 

"Certainly.     Then  my  word " 

"Bah!  your  word — that  is  nothing.     Withdraw  it." 

("Ah!  fiend,"  exclaimed  Lauzun  in  a  low  voice, 
clenching  his  fists  as  well  as  his  position  allowed  him; 
"this  is  the  way  you  plead  my  cause,  is  it?  Curses 
on  you!") 

"You  need  not  fear  for  Lauzun,"  continued  the 
lady  blandly.  "Mademoiselle  will  take  care  of  his 
interests — the  old  fool!" 

Madame  de  Montespan,  in  imitation  of  La  Grande 
Mademoiselle,  bridled,  simpered,  craned  her  neck, 
rounded  her  elbows,  and  stared  superciliously  under 
her  eyelids.     Louis  laughed. 

"Spare  my  poor  cousin.  Marquise.  She  is  emi- 
nently ridiculous;  but  I  love  her  sincerely.  Her  genuine 
affection  for  Lauzun  touches  me." 


246  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

"For  my  part,  Sire,  I  cannot  understand  how  any 
woman  can  care  for  him.  He  is  such  a  petit  maitre — 
ill-made,  short,  with  a  complexion  like  a  lemon — alto- 
gether detestable.  Not  a  man  to  my  taste,  certainly," 
added  she  contemptuously,  at  the  same  time  casting  a 
flattering  glance  at  the  King,  as  much  as  to  say,  in  his 
presence  no  other  man  could  possibly  be  thought  of. 
The  King  understood  the  glance  and  the  compliment, 
and  smiled  upon  her. 

"  The  ladies  are  not  on  your  side,  however,"  returned 
he.  "They  all  adore  Lauzun.  But  about  this  command 
of  Artillery — to  whom  am  I  to  give  it?" 

("Now  I  shall  know  all  the  depths  of  your  treachery, 
Athanaise  de  Montespan!"  said  Lauzun  half  aloud  to 
himself  from  under  the  couch.) 

"Did  any  one  speak?"  asked  the  King  quickly.  "I 
thought  I  heard  a  voice." 

(Lauzun  bit  his  lips  with  vexation.) 

"It  must  be  my  parrot.  Sire,"  answered  Madame 
de  Montespan. — "In  giving  away  so  important  a  post 
you  ought  certainly  to  consult  the  welfare  of  France. 
All  personal  considerations  should  be  sacrificed."  De 
Montespan  spoke  pompously. 

("  Sucre  DieuP'  murmured  Lauzun.  " She  is  a  female 
Judas!") 

"What  can  the  welfare  of  France  have  to  do  with 
this  appointment?"  asked  the  King,  smiling. 

("That  is  what  I  want  to  know  too,"  whispered 
Lauzun.     "Speak,  serpent!") 

"No  man  in  France  is  better  adapted  to  fill  this 
post  than  Lauzun,"  added  Louis  gravely. 

"How?"  cried  Madame  de  Montespan,  sitting  up- 
right,   and  speaking  in  a  shrill  voice  and  with  much 


UNDER  A   COUCH.  247 

animation,  as  the  King  seemed  to  vacillate.  "How, 
Sirel  Can  you  forget  that  dissensions  between  Louvois 
offended,  and  Lauzun  imperious,  (and  you  know,  Sire, 
his  overbearing  temper,  and  how  audacious  he  can  be), 
must  be  exceedingly  prejudicial  to  the  State?" 

"Spoken  like  an  oracle!"  exclaimed  the  King, 
looking  admiringly  at  her.  "What  a  head  you  have 
for  business,  madame!  You  are  as  beautiful  as  Venus, 
and  as  wise  as  Minerva!" 

"Your  Majesty  flatters  me,"  replied  the  lady,  casting 
an  enamoured  glance  at  him.  "I  only  observe  what 
is  perfectly  plain.  I  am  sure  your  Majesty's  penetration 
must  have  arrived  at  this  conclusion  already.  Remember, 
Louvois  may  resign,  if  you  affront  him,"  continued  she, 
fixing  her  bright  eyes  on  Louis. 

"Now,  all  the  fates  prevent  it!"  cried  Louis  with 
alarm.     "I  should  be  lost  without  Louvois." 

"Then  you  must  at  once  refuse  Lauzun!"  cried 
De  Montespan  with  decision. 

("By  heaven,  I  will  be  revenged!"  muttered  Lauzun, 
stung  with  sudden  rage  at  her  perfidy,  in  a  louder 
voice  than  he  was  aware  of.) 

"Now  I  am  certain  I  heard  some  one  speak!" 
exclaimed  the  King,  frowning,  and  turning  his  ear 
towards  the  spot  from  which  the  sound  came.  He 
paused  to  Hsten.  "Athanaise,"  said  he,  rising,  and 
looking  suspiciously  at  Madame  de  Montespan,  "this 
is  very  strange.  I  demand  an  explanation."  His 
Olympian  brow  was  knit. 

"Your  Majesty  is  mistaken,  you  only  heard  my 
parrot  in  the  ante-room.  Surely  you  do  not  doubt 
me,  Sire!"  added  she  in  a  tearful  voice,  putting  her 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes.     "Such  an  insult  would  kill 


248  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   FRANCE. 

me,"  Her  bosom  heaved.  "Oh,  Louis,  you  cannot 
love  me  if  you  entertain  such  unworthy  suspicions." 
Sobs,  real  or  false,  here  stifled  her  voice. 

Meanwhile  Louis  rose  hastily,  and  looked  into  the 
corners  and  behind  all  the  cabinets,  as  if  determined 
to  make  a  thorough  investigation  of  the  whole  room. 
This  would  have  rendered  Lauzun's  position  desperate. 
He  positively  shook  with  terror.  Madame  de  Montespan 
still  sobbed,  her  handkerchief  pressed  to  her  eyes. 

The  King  took  a  few  turns  up  and  down  the 
saloon,  brandished  his  cane,  and  moved  some  chairs. 
The  noise  he  made  roused  the  parrot  in  the  next  room 
into  a  fury.  It  screeched  so  loud  that  for  a  time  no- 
thing else  could  be  heard. 

Finding  no  one,  Louis,  rather  embarrassed,  placed 
himself  at  a  window.  He  looked  back  at  the  beautiful 
woman  still  weeping  on  the  settee.  "Come,  no  more 
tears,  Athanaise,"  he  said  tenderly,  approaching  her 
with  a  penitent  look  and  taking  the  handkerchief  from 
her  face.  "Let  this  kiss  seal  my  pardon.  But  the 
voice  was  really  so  distinct.  I  thought  for  a  mo- 
ment  "     Madame   de  Montespan  fixed  her  eyes 

reproachfully  on  him.  "Well,  no  matter.  Then  you 
advise  me  to  refuse  Lauzun  the  post  he  desires'?" 

"Certainly,"  returned  the  lady  with  decision.  She 
was  now  quite  calm  and  alive  to  business. 

A  knock  was  heard  at  the  door.  Several  gentle- 
men in  waiting,  attended  by  pages,  entered  and 
announced  that  supper  was  served  and  the  Queen 
already  at  table. 

"I  must  leave  you,  my  angel,"  said  the  King,  in  a 
low  voice,  rising.  "It  is  time  you  should  prepare  for 
the  performance  of  Moli^re's  play   in  the   theatre   ar- 


UNDER  A  COUCH.  249 

ranged  for  to-night.  Adieu,  my  adored  Marquise. 
Forgive  my  want  of  courtesy,"  he  whispered  in  her 
ear.  "But  the  parrofs  voice  was  so  natural. — I  will 
wipe  off  my  fault  in  any  manner  you  please." 

"I  ask  for  nothing,  Sire,"  replied  she  in  the  same 
low  tone,  "but  that  you  should  refuse  this  place  to 
Lauzun.  Do  this,  and  you  are  forgiven,"  and  her  eyes 
beamed  on  the  King,  who,  after  placing  his  hat, 
covered  with  a  plume  of  snowy  ostrich  feathers,  on  his 
head,  raised  it,  bowed  to  her,  and  kissed  her  hand. 
Then  replacing  his  hat  before  he  left  the  room  with 
his  attendants,  he  passed  the  outer  entrance,  where 
the  gardes  du  corps,  who  never  left  him,  presented 
arms. 

Madame  de  Montespan  passed  into  her  closet. 

When  the  saloon  was  empty,  Lauzun,  crimson  in 
the  face,  foaming  with  rage,  and  much  rumpled  in 
appearance,  emerged  from  his  hiding-place.  He  hastily 
replaced  his  wig, — so  hastily,  indeed,  that  he  put  it  on 
awry, —  and  dragged  on  his  coat  with  such  violence 
that  he  tore  off  the  priceless  Malines  lace  ruffles.  Oath 
after  oath  fell  from  his  lips  as  he  dressed  himself. 
"You  shall  pay  for  this,  devil  of  a  Marquise!  Morbleu, 
I  will  make  you  wince!"  he  muttered — for  he  dared 
not  speak  louder  until  he  had  left  the  room.  This  he 
did,  closing  the  doors  with  the  utmost  precaution 
behind  him. 

The  suite  of  rooms  assigned  to  Madame  de  Mon- 
tespan led  by  a  corridor  to  the  landing  of  the  grand 
marble  staircase  of  the  south  wing.  On  the  other  side 
and  across  this  landing  were  the  state  apartments, 
situated  in  the  centre  of  the  palace.  To  reach  them 
Madame  de  !Montespan  must  pass  this  coiTidor.  Lauzun 


250  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

placed  himself  behind  the  outer  door,  and  awaited 
her.  After  a  long  time  she  appeared.  Her  hair,  just 
touched  with  powder,  was  sown  with  diamonds.  A 
necklace  of  large  single  brilliants,  linked  together  with 
pearls,  lay  upon  her  neck.  Her  dress  was  of  pink 
satin,  woven  with  gold;  the  low  body  fitting  tightly, 
displayed  to  the  utmost  advantage  her  exquisite  form. 
Her  train  of  violet  velvet,  bordered  by  pearls  and 
passementerie  of  gold,  swept  the  ground.  She  was  a 
miracle  of  loveliness.  Lauzun  made  her  a  profound 
obeisance.  Taking  the  tips  of  her  fingers  within  his 
hand,  he  kissed  them,  and  begged  permission  to  be 
allowed  the  honour  of  escorting  her  across  the  landing 
to  the  state  apartments.  Madame  de  Montespan  smiled; 
his  delicate  attention  flattered  her  vanity.  Her  anger 
was  appeased.  The  gay  sabreur  was  returning  to  his 
allegiance.  Lauzun  was  now,  too,  a  personage,  as  the 
betrothed  of  Mademoiselle,  and  cousin  to  be  of  the 
King.  She  almost  repented  she  had  urged  the  King 
so  strongly  to  refuse  him  the  post  of  Grand  Master  of 
the  Artillery. 

Lauzun,  speaking  in  the  softest  and  most  insinu- 
ating voice,  now  asked  her  if  she  had  condescended, 
during  her  recent  interview  with  the  King,  to  remember 
his  humble  suit  to  his  Majesty,  for  which  he  had  re- 
commended himself  to  her  all-powerful  influence? 

"This  very  afternoon  I  have  done  so,"  replied  she 
with  the  utmost  effrontery.  "Indeed,  I  have  urged 
your  claims  so  strongly  upon  both  his  Majesty  and 
Louvois  that  I  believe  you  will  receive  the  appoint- 
ment to-morrow." 

"How  kind  you  are!"  answered  Lauzun,  affecting 
to  smile. 


UNDER  A   COUCH.  25! 

"Yes,"  returned  the  lady,  "after  all  my  eloquence. 
Monsieur  le  Comte,  you  must  be  successful,"  and  she 
gave  him  one  of  those  glances  out  of  her  serpent  eyes, 
whose  power  she  knew  so  well. 

"Delightful!"  rejoined  Lauzun  aloud.  "I  am  quite 
satisfied."  Then,  placing  his  mouth  close  to  her  ear, 
while  a  Satanic  look  passed  over  his  face,  he  hissed 
out,  "Yes,  I  am  satisfied,  for  now  I  have  fairly  un- 
masked you.  You  are  the  greatest  liar  in  his  Majesty's 
dominions!" 

As  he  spoke  her  arm  still  lay  confidingly  on  his. 
In  a  moment  he  had  seized  and  crushed  it  violently. 
Madame  de  Montespan  gave  a  piercing  scream. 

"Yes!"  yelled  Lauzun,  planting  himself  before  her 
—  "yes,  I  can  prove  what  I  say.  I  have  heard  every 
word  you  said  of  me  to  the  King.  I  was  present — 
concealed." 

"Ah!"  shrieked  Madame  de  Montespan,  agonized 
with  pain.  She  stopped,  and  leant  against  the  wall 
for  support.  A  look  of  real  terror  came  into  her  face. 
She  turned  appealingly  toward  Lauzun,  who  stood 
before  her  glaring  with  passion,  then,  overcome  by 
pain  and  fright,  she  staggered,  and  fainting,  or  affecting 
to  faint,  fell  heavily  upon  the  pavement.  There  Lauzun 
left  her.  Without  calling  for  help,  he  strode  rapidly 
down  the  grand  staircase,  and  disappeared. 


252  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 
Signing  the  Marriage  Contract. 

A  Day  is  at  length  fixed.  The  contract  between 
Mademoiselle  and  Lauzun  is  to  be  signed  at  the 
Luxembourg  Palace.  Mademoiselle  arrays  herself  in 
the  white  robe  of  an  affianced  bride.  Lauzun  is  beside 
her.  He  is  ostentatiously  humble;  indeed,  he  had 
never  been  thoroughly  civil  to  her  before. 

As  he  enters  the  boudoir  in  her  private  suite  of 
apartments  he  salutes  her  with  his  grandest  air,  and 
kisses  her  hand.  Mademoiselle  cannot  take  her  eyes 
off  him.  Her  senile  transports  are  ridiculous;  Lauzun 
feels  that  they  are. 

A  table  is  placed  in  the  centre  of  the  room;  at  this 
table  sits  Boucherat,  notary  to  her  royal  highness. 
He  is  dressed  in  the  quaint,  clerical  robe,  white  bands, 
and  short  wig  that  still  distinguishes  his  profession  in 
France.  The  marriage  contract,  of  portentous  size, 
lies  open  on  the  table  before  him.  Boucherat,  a  tall, 
spare  man,  with  a  singularly  doleful  expression  of 
countenance,  looks  discomposed,  coughs  several  times, 
then,  finding  that  no  one  attends  to  him,  looks  up. 
Mademoiselle  is  talking  eagerly  with  Lauzun. 

"Your  royal  highness, — "  begins  Boucherat,  hesi- 
tating. "Will  you  permit  me  to  address  you,  ma- 
dame  1"  he  adds  in  a  louder  tone,  finding  Mademoi- 
selle pays  no  attention  to  him. 

"What  is  it,  my  good  Boucheraf?"  asks  Mademoi- 
selle, turning  round  at  last  towards  him. 

Boucherat  rises  to  his  feet.  He  bows,  standing  on 
the  tips  of  his  toes,  then  folds  his  arms.    He  is  purple 


SIGNING  THE   MARRIAGE   CONTRACT.  2^3 

t 

in  the  face,  and  appears  to  be  suffering  acutely,  es- 
pecially as,  suddenly  unfolding  his  arms,  he  rubs  them 
violently  together. 

Lauzun  laughs.  Mademoiselle  cannot  altogether 
command  her  countenance. 

"I  have  known  your  royal  highness  from  a  child," 
says  Boucherat  hurriedly,  as  though  speaking  between 
spasms  of  pain.  "I  have  had  the  honour  of  serving 
your  illustrious  father,  Gaston,  Due  d'Orleans,  as  no- 
tary before  your  birth, — exalted  lady."  Here  Boucherat 
stops,  gasps  as  if  going  into  a  fit,  wipes  his  forehead 
with  his  handkerchief,  and  adjusts  his  wig. 

Lauzun  roars  with  laughter,  and  Mademoiselle 
contemplates  the  notary  with  silent  amazement. 

"I  have  the  honour  to  say, — great  lady,"  continues 
Boucherat  spasmodically,  "that  I  have  known  you  from 
a  child.  I  have  always  obeyed  you,  blindly,  as  was 
my  duty  and  my  pleasure.  I  have  obeyed  you  now, 
niadame,"  and  he  utters  a  sound  between  a  snort  and 
a  groan.  "I  have  at  your  command  drawn  up  these 
deeds,  as  you  bade  me.  But,"  and  he  again  stops, 
blows  his  nose  violently,  and  makes  a  hideous  grimace, 
*'I  cannot  allow  your  highness  to  sign  these  deeds  and 
contracts  without  presuming  to  ask  you  if  you  have 
fully  considered  their  import."  Here  such  a  succes- 
sion of  twitches  and  spasmodic  contortions  passes  over 
his  countenance,  that  he  is  scarcely  human. 

"I  have  well  considered  what  I  am  doing,  Bou- 
cherat," replies  Mademoiselle  loftily,  advancing  to  the 
table  and  taking  a  pen  in  her  hand. 

Lauzun,  no  longer  laughing,  stands  contemplating 
Boucherat,  with  a  savage  expression. 

"Your  highness — permit  me," — pursues  the  notary, 


254  OLD    COURT   LIFE  IN    FRANCE. 

not  seeing  him.  "Is  it  to  be  an  entire  donation  of  the 
princedom  of  Dombes,  the  county  of  Eu,  the  duke- 
dom of " 

"Yes,  yes,  Boucherat,  an  entire  donation,"  replies 
Mademoiselle,  interrupting  him. 

She  dips  the  pen  into  the  ink  and  prepares  to 
sign. 

"An  entire  donation,  madamel"  gasps  Boucherat, 
rising  noisily  to  his  feet,  then  re-seating  himself,  and 
repeating  this   several  times  in  his  excitement.     "Let 

me  caution  your  highness "     Another  snort  and  a 

succession  of  loud  coughs  silence  him. 

"This  good  man  will  certainly  have  a  fit,"  says 
Mademoiselle  half  aloud.  "What  can  I  do  with  him? 
Do  not  agitate  yourself,  Boucherat,"  and  she  turns  to- 
wards him.  She  well  knows  his  great  fidelity  and  at- 
tachment to  herself.  "Have  no  fear.  I  know  what  I 
am  about.  I  shall  never  be  more  mistress  of  my  for- 
tune than  when  I  give  it  to  this  gentleman." 

She  turns  round  and  glances  fondly  at  Lauzun, 
who  is  standing  behind  her.  She  starts  back  at  the 
furious  expression  on  his  face.  He  looks  diabolical. 
His  eyes  are  fixed  on  Boucherat.  The  pen  drops  from 
her  hand. 

"Believe  me,  madame,  I — I  have  reason  for  my 
caution;"  and  again  all  human  expression  passes  from 
the  face  of  the  notary  in  a  succession  of  the  most  vio- 
lent winks. 

"How,  villain!  what  do  you  mean?"  cries  Lauzun, 
advancing.  "I  shall  break  my  cane  on  your  back 
presently." 

Boucherat  rises,  looks   for  a  moment  at  Lauzun, 


SIGNING  THE  MARRIAGE   CONTRACT.  255 

then  at  Mademoiselle,   shakes  his  head    readjusts  his 
wig,  and  reseats  himself. 

Mademoiselle  had  taken  the  pen — which  Lauzun 
presents  to  her  this  time — again  in  her  hand. 

"Ah,  your  highness,"  groans  Boucherat,  "I  have 
done  my  duty.     God  help  and  guard  you!" 

"Are  these  deeds  as  I  commanded  them,  Bou- 
cherat?" 

"Yes,  madame;  they  are  a  donation,  an  entire  do- 
nation, of  the  princedom  of  Dombes,  the " 

"Be  silent,  scoundrel!"  roars  Lauzun,  "or  by  heaven 
I  will  split  your  head  open." 

Boucherat  shudders;  his  eyes  seem  to  turn  in  his 
head;  a  look  of  horror  is  on  his  face. 

Mademoiselle  draws  the  parchment  towards  her. 

"I  sign  here,"  she  says,  and  she  traces  her  name 
in  a  bold,  firm  hand,  "Louise  de  Montpensier." 

While  she  writes,  Boucherat  digs  his  hands  into 
his  wig ,_  which,  pushed  to  one  side,  discloses  his  bald 
head.  Then  with  a  piteous  glance  at  his  mistress,  he 
flings  his  arms  wildly  into  the  air. 

"Alas,  alas!  would  I  had  died  before  this!  the 
princedom  of  Dombes  gone — the  county  of  Eu  gone! 
Oh,  madame!" 

"Be  silent,  madman!"  roars  Lauzun,  ''or,  pardieUy 

I  will  throttle  you." 

***** 

The  folding-doors  leading  into  the  state  apart- 
ments are  now  thrown  open.  Mademoiselle  appears, 
led  by  the  Comte  de  Lauzun.  These  state  apartments 
had  been  decorated  by  her  grandmother,  Marie  de 
Medici,  who  had  lived  in  this  palace.  The  walls  are 
ornamented   with   delicate   arabesques,  panelled   with 


2^6  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

golden  borders,  and  painted  above  in  compartments. 
The  vaulted  ceilings  are  divided  into  various  designs, 
executed  by  Rubens,  illustrating  the  life  of  his  royal 
mistress.  Around  hang  the  effigies  of  the  Medici  and 
the  Bourbons,  the  common  ancestors  of  Marie  de  Me- 
dici and  her  granddaughter. 

Mademoiselle  passes  round  the  brilliant  circle  which 
forms  itself  about  her,  still  holding  Lauzun  by  the 
hand. 

"Permit  me,"  says  she,  in  her  stateliest  manner, 
taking  her  position  at  the  top  of  the  throne-room  un- 
der a  canopy — "Permit  me  to  present  to  you  my  fu- 
ture husband,  the  Due  de  Montpensier.  Let  me  beg 
all  of  you  in  future  to  address  him  by  that  title 
on/y." 

The  royal  princes  present  and  the  great  personages 
of  the  Court  bow  their  acquiescence.  The  Marechal 
de  Bellefonds  advances  and  salutes  Mademoiselle. 

"Permit  me,  madame,"  says  he,  addressing  her,  "to 
congratulate  you  in  the  name  of  your  highness's  de- 
voted friends.  I  desire  to  thank  you  especially  in  the 
name  of  the  nobility  of  France,  whom  I  represent,  for 
the  honour  you  are  conferring  on  our  order  by  choos- 
ing from  amongst  us  a  consort  to  share  your  dignity. 
We  esteem  Monsieur  de  Lauzun  one  of  the  brightest 
ornaments  of  the  Court;  he  is  worthy  of  the  proud 
station  for  which  you  have  selected  him." 

"I  thank  you,  Marechal  de  Bellefonds,  and  I  thank 
the  nobility  of  France  whom  you  so  worthily  represent. 
I  thank  you  from  my  heart,"  and  Mademoiselle  curt- 
seys with  royal  grace.  "No  one  is  so  well  acquainted 
as  myself  with  the  merit  of  Monsieur  de  Lauzun,"  and 


SIGNING  THE  MARRIAGE   CONTRACT.  257 

she  glances  proudly  at  her  future  husband.  "I  accept 
with  pleasure  the  sympathy  of  his  friends." 

Lauzun  bends,  and  kisses  the  hand  of  his  affianced 
wife.. 

Then  the  Marechal  de  Charost  steps  forth  from  a 
glittering  crowd  of  officers.  Charost  is  a  captain  in 
the  royal  body-guard. 

"I  must  also  thank  your  highness  for  the  honour 
you  confer  on  the  army  of  France.  My  post  is  now 
without  price;  for  what  would  a  soldier  not  give,  what 
sacrifices  would  he  not  make,  to  become  the  brother- 
in-arms  of  the  husband  of  your  highness?" 

A  laugh  follows  this  hearty  outburst  of  enthusiasm. 
It  is  scarcely  audible,  but  Mademoiselle  instantly  sup- 
presses it  with  a  frown,  ^^auzun  is  a  sacred  object  in 
her  eyes,  and  she  permits  no  jests,  however  flattering, 
to  mix  with  his  name.  Turning  towards  the  Marechal 
de  Charost,  she  replies  with  haughty  courtesy — 

"I  thank  you,  Marechal,  and,  in  your  person  I 
thank  the  brave  army  of  his  Majesty,  my  cousin." 

Before  this  august  company  separates  it  is  an- 
nounced that  the  marriage  contract  is  to  be  at  once 
submitted  to  the  King,  Queen,  the  Dauphin,  the  Due 
d'Orleans,  and  the  princes  of  the  blood-royal. 

The  marriage  is  to  take  place  next  day  at  Charen- 
ton,  at  the  villa  of  the  Marquise  de  Crequi.  The 
Archbishop  of  Rheiras  is  to  officiate. 


Old  Court  Life  in  Franct.    IT  17 


258  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 
Plot  and  Counterplot. 

Meanwhile,  Madame  de  Montespan  expatiated  to 
all  the  Court  on  the  impossibility  of  an  alliance  be- 
tween Mademoiselle  and  the  Comte  de  Lauzun.  That 
Lauzun  should  be  received  as  a  prince  of  the  blood 
would,  according  to  her,  for  ever  lessen  that  dignity 
so  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  monarch. 

Louvois,  her  creature — some  said  her  lover — spoke 
more  strongly.  Not  only  France,  he  said,  would  be 
eternally  disgraced,  but  his  Majesty  would  be  person- 
ally censured  in  every  Court  in  Europe,  for  permit- 
ting one  of  his  nearest  relatives  thus  to  demean  her- 
self.  Monsieur,  father  of  Mademoiselle,  declared  that 
such  an  alliance  would  be  an  affront  to  the  memory 
of  his  daughter's  illustrious  grandfather,  Henry  the 
Great.  Nobles  and  ministers,  incited  by  Louvois,  threw 
themselves  at  the  King's  feet.  They  implored  him 
not  to  cloud  his  glorious  reign  by  consenting  to  such 
a  mesalliance.  The  poor  weak  Queen,  worked  upon 
by  the  artifices  of  the  malicious  De  Montespan,  who, 
as  superintendent  of  her  household,  was  constantly 
about  her  person,  complained  loudly  of  the  insult 
about  to  be  put  upon  her  circle — she  a  royal  daughter 
of  Spain!  All  the  princesses  of  the  blood  joined  with 
her.  The  cabal  was  adroitly  managed.  It  attacked 
the  King's  weak  side.  No  man  was  ever  such  a  slave 
to  public  opinion,  or  so  scrupulously  regardful  of  ap- 
pearances, as  Louis  XIV.  To  him  the  vox  populi  was 
indeed  "the  voice  of  God." 

About   eight   o'clock  that   evening,    Mademoiselle 


PLOT  AND   COUNTERPLOT.  259 

was  summoned  to  the  Louvre  from  the  Luxembourg. 
"Was  the  King  still  at  cards?"  she  asked  the  mes- 
senger. 

"No;  his  Majesty  was  in  the  apartments  of  Madame 
de  Montespan,  but  he  desired  to  see  her  highness  the 
instant  she  arrived." 

As  Mademoiselle  drove  into  the  quadrangle,  a 
gentleman  in  waiting  approached  her  coach,  and 
begged  her  to  enter  by  another  door,  leading  directly 
into  the  private  apartments.  This  mystery  seemed  to 
her  excited  imagination  full  of  evil  import.  When 
she  reached  the  King's  cabinet,  some  one  ran  out  by 
another  door.  It  was  Madame  de  Montespan.  The 
King  was  sitting  over  the  fire.  His  head  rested  on 
his  hand.  Mademoiselle  stood  before  him  trembling 
all  over. 

"My  cousin,"  said  the  King  at  length,  rising  and 
offering  her  a  seat  beside  his  own,  "what  I  have  to 
tell  you  makes  me  wretched." 

"Good  God!  Sire,  what  is  it?"  asked  Mademoiselle 
in  a  hoarse  voice.  She  had  turned  as  white  as  the 
dress  (that  of  an  affianced  bride)  she  wore.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  the  King  in  a  wild  stare. 

"Calm  yourself,  my  cousin,"  said  Louis  solemnly. 
"It  is  said  by  my  ministers  that  I  am  sacrificing  you,  my 
relative,  to  the  interests  of  my  favourite  Lauzun.  I  am 
also  informed  that  Lauzun  declares  he  does  not  love 
you — that  it  was  you  who  offered  yourself  to  him  in 
marriage!" 

Mademoiselle  clasped  her  hands,  then  pressed  them 
on  her  forehead.  "Not  love  meV  she  cried.  "What 
a  base  lie!     Lauzun  tells  me  he  adores  me.'' 

"Nevertheless,  my  cousin,  such  reports  must  have 

17* 


2bO  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

some  foundation,"  resumed  the  King,  speaking  with 
great  gravity.  "They  compromise  me  in  my  royal 
person;  they  tarnish  the  glory  of  the  Crown  of  France, 
which  I  wear."  His  look  and  manner  from  grave  had 
become  overbearing  and  pompous.  It  was  quite  evident 
that  whatever  touched  his  own  position  he  would  ruth- 
lessly sacrifice.  "My  cousin,  I  have  to  announce  to 
you  that  I  cannot  permit  this  marriage."  He  spoke 
in  a  loud  grating  voice,  raised  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling, 
stroked  his  chin  with  his  hand,  and  seemed  to  swell 
with  self-consciousness. 

A  ringing  scream  was  heard  from  Mademoiselle. 
She  lay  back  on  her  arm-chair  motionless. 

Having  asserted  his  dignity,  and  conveyed  in 
proper  terms  to  his  cousin  that  neither  her  entreaties 
nor  her  sufferings  could  for  an  instant  be  considered 
when  they  encroached  upon  his  royal  state,  Louis 
relaxed  his  rigid  attitude,  condescended  to  turn  his 
eyes  downwards  upon  poor  Mademoiselle,  and  in  a 
voice  kind,  spite  of  his  sublimity,  added — 

"I  am  very  sorry  for  you,  my  cousin,  very  sorry. 
You  have  good  cause  to  complain  of  rrie;  but  my 
duty  as  King  of  France  is  supreme.  I  cannot  permit 
you  to  espouse  the  Comte  de  Lauzun." 

"Ah,  Sire — "  groaned  Mademoiselle,  in  a  voice  so 
choked  by  agitation  it  sounded  strange  in  the  King's 
ears,  and  made  him  shudder;  (for  his  selfish  nature 
instinctively  caused  him  to  shrink  from  every  species 
of  suffering).  She  held  out  her  hands  supplicatingly 
towards  him,  and  vainly  essayed  several  times  to  speak. 
"'Ah,  Sire,"  she  said  at  last  in  a  voice  scarcely  audible, 
■"you  cannot  withdraw  your  word — the  word  of  a 
King.     Consider,"  and  she  stopped  and  burst  into  an 


PLOT  AND   COUNTERPLOT.  26  I 

agony  of  tears.  "Consider,  my  cousin,  no  one  can 
have  anything  to  do  with  my  marriage  but  myself." 

No  sooner  had  she  uttered  these  words  than  Louis 
drew  himself  up;  the  long  curls  of  the  full-bottomed 
wig  which  covered  his  shoulders  vibrated,  and  the 
diamond  star  he  wore  on  his  coat  of  peach-coloured 
satin  glistened,  so  sudden  had  been  his  action.  At 
the  same  time,  such  a  stony  look  came  into  his  hard 
face,  as  gave  him  the  aspect  of  a  statue. 

"Excuse  me,  my  cousin,  my  royal  dignity,  the 
splendour  of  my  Court,  the  esteem  of  every  crowned 
head  in  Europe  are  implicated.  You  seem  to  forget 
that  you  are  born  a  daughter  of  France.  But,  madame, 
I  remember  it,  and  I  shall  shield  my  royal  name  from 
dishonour!" 

Overcome  as  was  Mademoiselle,  she  perceived  the 
mistake  she  had  made.  Her  brain  reeled,  her  limbs 
quivered  convulsively,  but  she  staggered  to  her  feet. 

"Oh,  Sire,  hear  me!"  she  cried.  "Let  me  implore 
you,"  and  she  threw  herself  before  him  and  clasped 
his  knees,  "do  not,  do  not  forbid  me  to  marry  my 
beloved  Lauzun.  No  ordinary  rule  applies  to  him. 
Lauzun  is  good,  great,  heroic!  Oh!  who  would  be- 
come a  royal  position  like  Lauzuni" 

Louis  did  not  reply.  Having  sufficiently  asserted 
his  dignity,  he  no  longer  restrained  his  kindlier  feel- 
ings. He  put  his  arms  round  his  cousin,  and  tried  to 
raise  her  from  the  ground. 

"No,  no;  let  me  kneel,"  cried  she  passionately, 
clinging  to  him,  "until  you  have  recalled  those  dread- 
ful words.  Sire,  I  have  ever  respected  and  loved  you. 
I  have  lived  beside  you  as  a  sister.  Do  not — oh!  do 
not  make  my  life  desolate.     For  God's  sake,   let  me 


262  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

spend  it  with  the  only  man  I  ever  loved!  A  man  so 
made  to  love.  Kill  me!  kill  me!  my  cousin,"  and  she 
wrung  her  hands  convulsively;  "but,  if  I  am  to  live, 
let  me  live  with  Lauzun.  I  cannot — I  will  not  give 
him  up!" 

Louis  rose  from  the  arm-chair  on  which  he  was 
seated.  He  knelt  on  the  floor  by  her  side.  He  again 
took  her  in  his  arms,  and  laying  her  head  upon  his 
breast,  he  soothed  her  like  a  child.  Big  tears  rolled 
<iown  his  cheeks.  He  called  her  by  every  endearing 
name  to  comfort  her.  He  did  all,  save  consent  to 
her  marriage. 

Mademoiselle  was  drowned  in  tears.  Vainly  did 
she,  turning  her  swollen  eyes  upon  the  King,  who 
soothed  her  so  fondly,  strain  her  ears  to  hear  that 
one  little  word  which  was  to  dry  them.  She  listened 
in  vain;  that  word  was  never  to  be  spoken.  At  last, 
faint  with  emotion,  she  signed  to  the  King  to  raise 
her  up,  which  he  did,  placing  her  on  a  chair.  He 
kissed  her  burning  forehead,  and  pressed  her  dry 
hands  in  his. 

"My  cousin,"  he  said,  "do  not  blame  me.  Rather 
blame  yourself.  Why  did  you  not  take  my  advice?  I 
told  you  to  lose  no  time:  To  marry  at  once.  You 
should  have  done  so.  Why  did  you  give  me  time  to 
reflect — time  for  others  to  reflect?  You  ought  to  have 
obeyed  me." 

Mademoiselle  dared  not  confess  that  it  was  Lauzun's 
fault  she  had  not  done  so,  but  at  this  recollection  a 
fresh  burst  of  grief  choked  her  utterance. 

"Alas,  Sire,"  she  moaned  at  last,  "when  did  you 
ever  break  your  word   before?     Could  I  believe  you 


PLOT   AND   COUNTERPLOT.  263 

would  begin  with  mel     To  break  your  word,  too,   in 
such  a  manner!" 

As  Louis  hstened  to  her,  he  knit  his  brows,  and 
looked  gloomy  and  embarrassed. 

"I  am  not  my  own  master,"  he  replied  coldly, 
**in  affairs  touching  my  house  and  the  honour  of  my 
race."  > 

"Sire,  if  I  do  not  marry  Lauzun,"  groaned  Made- 
moiselle, almost  inaudibly,  "I  shall  die.  I  never  loved 
any  other  man.  I  ask  my  life  of  you,  cousin.  Do 
not  take  my  life.  You  are  sacrificing  me  to  a  court 
intrigue,"  she  added  faintly,  catching  at  his  hand,  for 
she  was  fast  losing  heart;  "but  believe  me,  and  let 
others  know,  that  much  as  I  love  and  respect  your 
Majesty,  and  desire  to  obey  you,  I  will  never,  never 
marry  another  man."  Holding  the  King's  hand,  she 
kissed  it,  and  gazed  imploringly  at  him. 

"Dear  cousin,  do  not  be  so  unhappy,"  he  replied, 
at  a  loss  what  answer  to  make  to  such  a  home-thrust, 
which  he  knew  to  be  so  true.  "Believe  me,  your 
obedience  in  this  matter  of  Lauzun  will  make  you 
doubly  dear  to  me.  You  can  command  me  in  all 
other  ways." 

"Nothing — nothing  can  give  life  a  value  without 
Lauzun!"  broke  in  Mademoiselle  vehemently. 

"My  cousin,"  answered  the  King  gravely,  "I  can- 
not permit  you  to  be  sacrificed.  You  are  made  a 
tool  of.  I  cannot  permit  it.  Now,"  he  continued, 
rising, — and  with  difficulty  suppressing  a  yawn — "you 
can  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  me.  I  shall  not 
alter  my  determination." 

Mademoiselle   wrung   her  hands,   the   King   drew 


264  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

her  to  him,  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead.  As  he 
did  so,  a  tear  dropped  upon  her  cheek. 

"Oh,  Sire!"  cried  Mademoiselle,  "you  pity  me^ 
and  you  have  the  heart  to  refuse  me!  You  are  the 
master  of  my  fate.  Have  mercy  on  me!  Do  not 
give  heed  to  others.  Ah,  Sire,  you  are  destroying  me!'^ 

"Come  to  me  to-morrow,  my  cousin,"   said  Louis 

soothingly,  much  affected,  but  unshaken  by  her  prayers. 

"Come   and    tell   me   you    have   forgiven   me.      'Now, 

good   night,"    and   again   he   tenderly   embraced  her. 

Then  he  summoned  his  attendants  to  conduct  herta 

her  coach. 

****** 

Lauzun  had  played  deep  for  a  great  prize,  and  he 
had  lost  the  game.  He  broke  out  into  savage  abuse, 
and  called  the  King  opprobrious  names.  Absolutely 
maddened  by  rage,  he  rushed  to  the  palace.  He 
was  refused  admittance.  Yet  he  swore  and  cursed  at 
the  attendants  until  he  forced  them  to  let  him  pass. 
Then  he  strode  up-stairs  to  the  apartments  of  Madame 
de  Montespan.  Here  he  found  the  King  seated  by 
her  side. 

Louis  rose,  placed  himself  in  front  of  the  Mar- 
quise, and  faced  him  with  a  look  of  the  gravest  dis- 
pleasure. 

"Sire,"  cried  Lauzun,  his  face  swollen  with  passion, 
"I  am  come  to  ask  you  what  I  have  done  that  you 
should  dishonour  meV 

"Come,  come,  Lauzun,"  replied  Louis,  still  stand- 
ing before  Madame  de  Montespan;  "calm  yourself." 

Lauzun  was  too  deep  in  the  royal  secrets  to  make 
an  open  breach  with  him  either  advisable  or  safe. 

"No,    Sire,"   roared   Lauzun,   emboldened   by  the 


PLOT  AND   COUNTERPLOT.  265 

King's  calmness;  "permit  me  to  say  I  will  not  calm 
myself.  I  will  not  permit  this  humiliation.  There  is 
my  sword,"  and  he  drew  it  from  its  scabbard;  "your 
Majesty  has  made  me  unworthy  to  wear  it.  Take  it — 
take  my  life  also." 

Lauzun  presented  his  sword.  The  King  put  it 
from  him  with  an  imperious  gesture. 

"Comte  de  Lauzun,"  said  he  with  dignity,  "I  re- 
fuse to  accept  your  sword.  Let  it  still  be  drawn  in 
my  service.  There  is  much  to  wound  you  in  what  has 
passed.  I  feel  deeply  for  you.  But  my  duty  as  King 
of  France  compels  me  to  act  as  I  have  done." 

This  was  a  bold  assertion  in  the  presence  of  Ma- 
dame de  Montespan,  who  sat  motionless  behind  the 
King,  her  cheeks  blanched  at  the  thought  of  what 
revelations  Lauzun  might  make  in  his  rage. 

"I  will  make  what  recompense  I  can  to  you,"  con- 
tinued the  King.  "You  shall  be  raised,  Comte  de 
Lauzun,  so  high  that  you  shall  cease  to  remember 
this  marriage  you  now  so  much  desire." 

"Sire,  I  will  accept  no  gifts,  no  honours,  from  a 
monarch  who  has  forfeited  his  word.  Ay,  Sire,  I  re- 
peat it  deliberately,"  seeing  the  King's  glance  of  fury 
at  his  insolence,  "forfeited  his  word.  Here  do  I  sur- 
render this  sword,  which  your  Majesty  conferred  on 
me.  Here  do  I  break  it,  Sire,  in  your  face  as  you 
have  broken  your  word." 

As  he  spoke,  he  bent  his  knee,  snapped  the  blade 
in  two,  and  violently  dashed  the  fragments  on  the 
ground  at  the  King's  feet. 

"And  you,  perfidious  woman,"  he  continued,  ad- 
dressing Madame  de  Montespan,  "of  whom  I  could 
reveal  so  much,   whose  treachery  I  have  proved — you 


266  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

who  sit  there  unmoved — behold  your  handiwork!  Do 
I  not  know  that  it  is  you,  who,  for  your  own  wicked 
purposes,  have  influenced  my  royal  master  against  uxqI" 

Lauzun  spoke  so  rapidly  that  all  this  had  been 
said  before  Louis  could  stop  him. 

"Comte  de  Lauzun,"  broke  forth  the  King  in  a 
voice  unsteady  with  passion,  "leave  me — leave  the 
palace,  I  command  you.  Presume  not  to  insult  Ma- 
dame deMontespan  in  my  presence,  or"  —  and  he  put 
out  his  hand,  grasped  the  gold-headed  cane  which  lay 
beside  him,  and  strode  up  to  where  Lauzun  stood, 
crimson  in  the  face — "or  I  shall  chastise  you  as  you 
deserve!"  and  Louis  brandished  the  stick  in  the  air. 

Then,  as  if  thinking  better  of  it,  his  uplifted  arm 
dropped  to  his  side,  he  drew  back  some  steps,  flung 
away  the  cane  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room,  and, 
with  a  great  effort,  collected  himself. 

"Leave  me!"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  he  strove 
with  difficulty  to  render  calm.  "Leave  me  instantly, 
while  I  can  still  command  myself.  Go,"  and  he  ex- 
tended his  hand  with  authority,  "go,  until  you  learn 
how  to  address  your  Sovereign." 

Notwithstanding  these  altercations,  Mademoiselle 
de  Montpensier  did  not  leave  the  Court.  She  was 
gracious  to  all  who  approached.  She  looked  happy, 
even  radiant.  Lauzun,  also,  after  a  short  absence,  re- 
sumed his  service  about  the  King's  person.  He  was 
sleek,  prosperous,  and  more  haughty  than  ever.  All 
this  was  very  strange.  That  vindictive  beauty,  Madame 
de  Montespan,  could  not  understand  it.  Her  vengeance 
after  all  had  failed.  The  matter  must  be  looked  into. 
Spies  were  immediately  set.  Every  means  of  inquiry 
the  State  could   commarid  was  brought    to  bear  on 


THE  ROYAL  GOVERNESS.  267 

Lauzun    and    the    Princess.     Their    secret    was    soon 
discovered.      They  were  married! 

Madame  de  Montespan  rushed  to  the  King,  and 
announced  the  tremendous  fact.  Lauzun  was  instantly 
arrested,  and  imprisoned  at  Pignerol.  Mademoiselle, 
plunged  in  the  depths  of  despair,  left  the  Court  for 
her  Ch2,teau  of  Eu,  on  the  coast  of  Normandy. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 
The  Royal  Governess. 

It  was  the  King's  habit,  when  at  Saint-Germain, 
to  hear  early  mass  in  the  chapel.  On  his  return,  he 
passed  through  the  great  gallery  in  which  the  Court 
was  assembled,  to  make  their  morning  salutations  to 
him.  There  he  also  received  the  petitions  of  all  who 
had  sufficient  interest  to  gain  admittance.  A  woman, 
tall,  finely  formed,  and  of  ample  proportions,  with  a 
stealthy  glance  out  of  magnificent  black  eyes,  a  well- 
curved  mouth,  and  a  composed  and  dignified  bearing, 
■ — quite  a  style  to  suit  the  royal  taste, — with  a  black 
silk  scarf  edged  with  lace  thrown  over  her  head,  and 
wearing  a  dress  of  common  materials,  but  skilfully 
designed  to  set  off  her  rounded  figure  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage, presented  herself  before  him.  In  her  hand 
she  held  a  petition,  at  the  top  of  which,  in  large  let- 
ters, was  written:  "The  Widow  Scarron  most  humbly 
prays  his  Majesty  to  grant " 

Louis  read  no  more;  his  eye  was  gratified  by  the 
petitioner,  not  by  the  petition,  which  he  put  into  his 
pocket  and  forgot.  But  the  lady  appeared  so  often, 
standing  in   the  same  place  in  the  gallery  of  Saint- 


268  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

Germain,  that  his  Majesty  grew  weary  of  her  sight.    At 
length  he  turned  his  back  upon  her. 

Franjoise  d'Aubigne,  of  the  Protestant  family  of 
that  name,  had  married  in  her  youth  the  poet  Scarron 
—  a  dwarf,  deformed  and  bedridden ,  a  lover  of 
loose  company,  and  a  writer  of  looser  songs — for 
her  bread.  Scarron  drew  up  the  marriage  contract 
without  the  assistance  of  a  notary.  The  dower  of 
Fran9oise  was  as  follows.  Four  pounds  a  year,  two 
large  black  eyes,  a  fine  bust,  well-shaped  hands,  and 
a  great  deal  of  esprit.  Scarron  covenanted  to  con- 
tribute the  hump  upon  his  back,  plenty  of  brains, 
and  a  pension  granted  to  him  by  the  Queen-Regent, 
Anne  of  Austria,  as  le  malade  de  la  Reine.  He  re- 
gretted he  could  not  offer  either  hands  or  feet,  both 
being  paralyzed.  But  he  can  assure  his  fiancee  of  a 
dower  which  she  will  gladly  accept  —  Immortality:  a 
prediction  made  in  derision,  which  was  strangely  justi- 
fied by  events. 

In  the  house  of  her  husband,  this  enticing  daugh- 
ter of  the  d'Aubignes  learned  early  "to  be  all  things 
to  all  men."  She  copied  her  husband's  ribald  songs 
for  him,  she  entertained  his  promiscuous  circle  of 
friends  —  the  gross  Villarceaux,  Ninon  de  I'Enclos, 
Mademoiselle  de  Scuderi,  a  lady  of  the  highest 
virtue,   but  who  affected  Bohemian  society,   and  many 

others. 

In  process  of  time,  Madame  Scarron's  youth,  beauty, 
and  talents  opened  to  her  the  salon  of  the  Marechal 
d'Albret,  where  she  made  the  acquaintance  of  Madame 
de  Sevigne,  and  Madame  de  Chalais,  to  become  the 
Princesse  des  Ursins.  She  also  made  a  much  more 
important    acquaintance    in    Madame    de   Montespan. 


THE  ROYAL  GOVERNESS.  269 

When  Scarron  died,  she  found  herself  without  a  re- 
source in  the  world.  The  King  had  disregarded  her 
petition.  By  her  friends'  interest  she  obtained  a  place 
in  the  household  of  the  Princesse  de  Nemours,  affianced 
to  the  King  of  Portugal.  Before  quitting  France,  she 
called  on  all  she  knew.  Among  others,  she  visited 
Madame  de  Montespan.  To  her  she  related  her  ill- 
success  at  Saint-Germain. 

"Why  did  you  not  come  to  meV  asked  the  fa- 
vourite. "I  would  have  protected  you.  I  will  even 
now  take  charge  of  your  petition.  I  will  see  that  his 
Majesty  reads  it." 

"VVhat!"  cried  Louis,  when  he  saw  the  well-known 
name,  "the  Widow  Scarron  again?  Why,  I  am  deluged 
with  her  petitions.  She  is  become  a  Court  proverb,  'as 
importunate  as  the  Widow  Scarron.'  What  do  you 
know  of  the  Widow  Scarron,  Athanaise?" 

The  petition  for  the  pension  was  nevertheless 
granted,  and  /a  Veuve  Scarron,  notwithstanding  many 
scandalous  reports  of  the  past,  was  appointed  governess 
to  the  illegitimate  children  born  to  the  King  and  Ma- 
dame de  Montespan.  Her  devotion  to  her  charges  was 
extraordinary.  The  King,  an  attached  father,  was 
favourably  impressed.  He  showed  his  approbation  by 
a  liberal  allowance,  out  of  which  was  purchased  the 
chateau  and  estate  ofMaintenon,  lying  in  a  picturesque 
valley  beside  a  river,  sheltered  by  hills,  in  a  woodland 
district  between  Versailles  and  Chatres.  From  this 
time  the  Widow  Scarron  was  known  as  the  Marquise 
de  Maintenon,  and  became  a  devout  Catholic.  She 
had  her  own  apartments  at  Court,  and  cut  all  her  dis- 
reputable friends.  She  was  constantly  present  when 
the  King  visited  Madame  de  Montespan. 


270  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

In  the  meantime,  Mademoiselle  de  Montpensier  re- 
turned to  Court.  Louis  XIV.  could  not  tolerate  the 
absence  of  any  of  the  princes  and  princesses  of  the 
blood-royal,  stars  of  the  first  magnitude  in  that  heaven 
where  he  blazed  forth  the  centre  of  life  and  light. 
Louis  had  sent  a  message  to  her.  Mademoiselle  there- 
fore dried  her  eyes,  and  appeared  in  her  usual  place 
in  the  circle.  Surely,  she  thinks,  the  King  will  ap- 
preciate the  sacrifice  she  is  making  in  being  present 
at  festivities  which,  by  recalling  so  vividly  the  image 
of  Lauzun,  drive  her  to  despair! 

A  ballet  is  to  take  place  at  Versailles;  the  King  is 
to  dance.  Mademoiselle  forces  herself  to  be  present. 
She  looks  old,  sad,  and  ill.  She  is  preoccupied.  Her 
thoughts  are  with  Lauzun ,  in  the  mountain-bound 
fortress  of  Pignerol.  There  is  but  one  person  present 
in  that  vast  company  she  cares  about.  With  him  she 
yearns  to  speak.  It  is  d'Artagnan,  Captain  of  the 
Musketeers,  who  accompanied  Lauzun  to  Pignerol. 

D'Artagnan,  a  Gascon,  is  a  countryman  of  Lauzun. 
He  perfectly  understands  the  part  he  has  to  play  with 
Mademoiselle;  a  part,  indeed,  he  had  carefully  re- 
hearsed with  Lauzun  while  they  were  together.  All 
the  time  the  ballet  lasts,  d'Artagnan,  in  immediate 
attendance  on  the  King,  keeps  his  eyes  fixed  on  Made- 
moiselle with  a  sorrowful  expression.  This  agitates  her 
extremely;  she  has  the  greatest  difficulty  in  keeping 
her  seat  beside  the  Queen. 

Supper  is  served  in  the  Queen's  apartment.  Louis 
and  Maria  Theresa  sit  under  a  canopy  of  cloth  of  gold. 
Hundreds  of  wax  lights  blaze  in  gilded  stands,  and 
the  King's  twenty-four  violins  play.  The  Dauphin, 
Mademoiselle,   and   all   the  princes  and  princesses  of 


THE  ROYAL  GOVERNESS.  27  I 

the  blood  present,  are  seated  at  the  table.  The  ushers 
and  attendants  admit  the  public  to  gaze  at  their  Ma- 
jesties. Every  well-dressed  person  can  enjoy  this  privi- 
lege ,  and  the  staircases  and  passages  are  filled  with 
crowds  ascending  and  descending. 

When  the  tedious  ceremony  is  over,  Mademoiselle 
places  herself  near  the  door,  and  signs  to  d'Artagnan 
to  approach. 

"Ah,  Captain  d'Artagnan,  I  saw  you  looking  at  me 
all  the  time  of  the  ballet,"  she  says,  with  a  sigh. 

D'Artagnan,  a  bluff,  soldierly  fellow,  but  crafty 
withal,  and  shrewd,  a  good  friend  and  a  bitter  hater, 
salutes  her  respectfully. 

"D'Artagnan,"  continues  Mademoiselle,  moving 
closer  beside  him,  and  dropping  her  voice  into  a 
whisper,  "you  have  something  to  tell  me.  I  see  it  in 
your  face.  You  accompanied  Monsieur  de  Lauzun  to 
Pignerol.  Tell  me  everything  you  can  remember." 
Her  manner  is  quick  and  hurried,  her  breath  comes 
fast. 

"Your  highness,  I  left  the  Comte  de  Lauzun  in 
good  health." 

"Thank  God!"  ejaculated  Mademoiselle,  clasping 
her  hands. 

She  feels  so  faint  she  is  obliged  to  ask  the  Queen's 
permission  to  open  a  window. 

"Was  he  indisposed  on  his  long  journey?" 

"No,  madame;  he  was  perfectly  well.  I  never  left 
him.  Even  at  night  I  slept  in  the  same  chamber.  Such 
were  my  instructions." 

"Did  he  speak  to  you  of  mel"  asked  Mademoiselle 
in  a  faltering  voice,  blushing  deeply. 

"Constantly,  your  highness.   He  spoke  of  you  with 


212  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

the  utmost  devotion.  Next  to  the  grief  Monsieur  de 
Lauzun  felt  at  parting  from  your  royal  highness,  I  am 
persuaded  he  suffered  most  from  the  displeasure  of 
his  Majesty." 

"Proceed,  I  entreat  you,"  breaks  in  Mademoiselle 
eagerly.  "Every  word  you  say  is  inexpressibly  precious 
to  me.  When  did  Lauzun  first  speak  to  you  of  me, 
and  what  did  he  say?" 

"I  must  tell  you,"  continues  the  artful  d'Artagnan, 
watching  her  as  a  cat  does  a  mouse — "I  must  tell  your 
highness  that  before  these  unfortunate  events  I  had 
avoided  the  Comte  de  Lauzun.  I  imagined  he  despised 
every  one." 

Mademoiselle  shakes  her  head. 

"Proper  pride  —  a  conscious  superiority,"  she 
murmurs. 

"Well,  madame,  when  he  was  arrested  on  St.  Ca- 
therine's day,  at  Saint-Germain,  the  Comte  de  Roche- 
fort  brought  him  into  the  guard-room,  and  consigned 
him  to  me.  I  started  at  once  with  him  on  his  journey 
to  Pignerol.  From  time  to  time  he  gazed  at  me,  but 
did  not  utter  a  single  word.  When  we  passed  your 
villa  at  Petit  Bourg,  he  groaned,  and  tears  gathered 
in  his  eyes." 

"Poor  Lauzun!"  says  Mademoiselle  softly,  lifting 
up  her  eyes. 

"'That  villa,'  said  the  Count  to  me,  'belongs  to 
Mademoiselle.  Words  cannot  tell  what  I  owe  her.  She 
is  as  good  as  she  is  great.'" 

"Did  Lauzun  really  say  this?"  asks  Mademoiselle, 
with  melting  eyes. 

"He  did,  madame,"  rejoins  d'Artagnan  with  secret 
exultation  at  seeing  how  the   bait   is   swallowed.     "'I 


THE  ROYAL   GOVERNESS.  273 

am  unhappy,  Captain  d'Artagnan,'  he  went  on  to  say, 
'unhappy,  but  not  guilty.  I  have  served  my  King 
faithfully.  I  have  worshipped  Mademoiselle — not  for 
her  wealth,  but  for  herself.' " 

Mademoiselle  puts  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 
She  is  convulsed  with  suppressed  sobs. 

"Yes,  madame;  this  and  much  more  was  said  to 
me  by  the  Count.  Indeed,  his  words  were  so  touch- 
ing that,  soldier  as  I  am,  I  wept,  your  highness — I 
actually  wept." 

"Excellent  man,"  mutters  Mademoiselle,  stretching 
out  her  hand  towards  him.  "I  shall  not  forget  your 
appreciation  of  so  noble  a  gentleman." 

D'Artagnan  makes  a  profound  obeisance. 

("My  promotion  is  now  assured,"  he  says  to  him- 
self, "as  well  as- poor  Lauzun's  pardon.  Mademoiselle 
has  great  interest  with  his  Majesty.") 

D'Artagnan  passes  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  as  if 
to  brush  away  tears,  which  he  does  not  shed. 

"I  have  seen  much  since  I  served  his  Majesty," — 
he  continues  in  broken  sentences,  simulating  deep  grief. 
"I  am  an.  observer  of  human  nature; — but  never — 
never  did  I  know  a  man  of  such  elevation  of  mind, 
with  feelings  so  warm,  so  genuine,  as  Monsieur  de 
Lauzun.  The  charms  of  his  person,  the  dignity  of  his 
manners,  his  fortitude  and  patience  in  adversity,  are 
more  honourable  to  him  than  the  splendour  of  his 
position  as  the  first  nobleman  in  France." 

Mademoiselle,  unable  to  contain  her  feelings,  lays 
her  hand  upon  d'Artagnan's  hand,  and  presses  it. 

"Your  penetration  does  you  honour,  Monsieur 
d'Artagnan.  Yet  so  mean,  so  base  is  the  envy  of  a 
Court,   that  it  is  whispered  about,   loud  enough  even 

Old  Court  Life  in  Fratice.    11.  1 8 


2  74  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

for  me  in  my  exalted  position  to  hear,  that  Lauztin 
cares  only  for  my  revenues — not  for  myself." 

"Good  God,  what  a  slander!"  cried  d'Artagnan, 
with  a  face  of  well- simulated  horror. 

"Yes;  but  I  do  not  believe  it,"  hastily  adds  Made- 
moiselle. 

"I  can  pledge  my  honour  as  a  soldier,  your  high- 
ness, it  is  a  lie,"  breaks  in  d'Artagnan,  anxious  for  his 
friend's  prospects. 

"  I  know  it — I  know  it,"  answers  Mademoiselle  with 
triumph. 

"Ah,  madame,"  continues  d'Artagnan,  shaking  with 
suppressed  laughter,  "did  I  not  fear  to  offend  your 
delicacy,  I  could  say  more." 

"Ah!  didLauzun  speak  often  of  me?"  she  asks,  and 
a  fire  comes  into  her  sunken  eyes.    "Tell  me." 

"He  spoke  of  nothing  else.  Day  and  night  your 
name  was  on  his  lips.  My  honour  as  a  Gascon 
upon  it." 

"Repeat  this  to  me,"  cries  Mademoiselle  with 
ecstasy. 

"You  little  know,  your  highness,  what , tortures  he 
suffers  at  being  separated  from  you." 

"Alas!  Monsieur  d'Artagnan,  he  cannot  suffer 
more  than  I!"  and  Mademoiselle's  sigh  is  almost  a 
groan. 

"Your  highness  has  great  influence  over  his  Ma- 
jesty. Is  it  possible  that  his  imprisonment  may  be 
shortened?" 

"Can  you  doubt  that  my  whole  life,  my  influence, 
my  wealth,  all  I  have,  will  be  devoted  to  this  object?" 
exclaims  Mademoiselle. 

("Good,"  thinks  d'Artagnan;  "I  have   served   my 


THE  ROYAL  GOVERNESS.  2  75 

poor  friend,   and  I  hope  myself,   well.     What  an  im- 
becile she  is!") 

At  this  moment  there  is  a  general  move.  The 
Queen,  who  has  been  playing  cards,  rises,  and  Made- 
moiselle is  forced  to  accompany  her. 

Years  pass;  Lauzun  still  remains  a  prisoner  at 
Pignerol. 

Mademoiselle  is  at  the  Luxembourg.  She  is  sitting 
in  her  closet  writing,  when  a  page  enters,  and  an- 
nounces Madame  de  Maintenon.  This  lady  is  now 
the  recognised  governess  of  the  legitimatised  children 
of  the  King,  the  bosom  friend  of  their  mother,  the 
Marquise  de  Montespan.  Already  she  is  scheming  to 
supplant  her  in  the  King's  affections.  Madame  de 
Maintenon  is  singularly  handsome.  Her  face  is  pale; 
her  complexion  marble-like;  her  eyes  are  large  and 
lustrous,  though  somewhat  fixed  and  stern.  Her  glossy, 
dark  hair  is  raised  high  on  her  head,  and  a  mantilla 
of  lace  is  thrown  over  it.  Her  dress  is  of  a  sombre 
colour,  but  of  the  richest  material.  It  rustles  along 
the  ground,  as,  with  measured  steps,  she  advances 
towards  Mademoiselle.  The  latter  is  conscious  of  the 
stately  bearing  of  the  governess,  who  dares  not,  how- 
ever, presume  first  to  address  her.  Mademoiselle  does 
not  rise,  but  bends  her  head  in  acknowledgment  of 
her  salutation.  She  signs  to  Madame  de  Maintenon 
to  be  seated. 

"You  are  come  alone,  madame,"  says  the  Princess. 
"I  should  have  rejoiced  to  see  your  little  charges — 
those  dear  children  of  whom  I  am  so  fond.  Are  they 
wein" 

"I  am  happy  to  inform  your  highness  they  are  in 
perfect  health.     The  Due  de  Maine  looked  lovely  this 

16* 


276  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   FRANCE. 

morning  when  he  went  with  me  to  mass  in  the  royal 
chapel.  I  have  come  to  bring  you  a  little  letter  he 
has  written  to  your  highness,"  and  the  Marquise 
presents  a  note  addressed  in  a  schoolboy's  hand. 
"Ever  since  he  has  corresponded  with  you,  during  his 
stay  in  Holland  and  at  Barege,  he  finds  such  pleasure 
in  writing  to  you,  I  do  not  like  to  forbid  it." 

"The  dear  child!  I  love  him  greatly,"  repUes 
Mademoiselle,  secretly  wondering  on  what  errand  Ma- 
dame de  Maintenon  has  come. 

"I  have  the  honour  to  inform  your  royal  highness," 
says  the  Marquise  after  a  pause,  fixing  her  black  eyes 
keenly  upon  her,  "my  visit  to  you  is  official.  I  come 
from  the  King." 

Mademoiselle  falls  back  in  her  chair;  a  mist 
gathers  before  her  eyes.  "It  must  be  about  Lauzun 
she  has  come!"  is  her  first  thought. 

"But  before  I  proceed  to  the  subject  of  my  mis- 
sion," continues  Madame  de  Maintenon,  speaking  in 
a  clear  metallic  voice,  all  the  while  contemplating 
Mademoiselle  as  if  she  were  an  object  of  minute 
study — "but  before  I  proceed,  allow  me  to  offer  to 
your  highness  the  compliments  of  Madame  de  Mon- 
tespan,  who  is  hunting  at  Clagny  with  the  King.  She 
bids  me  pray  you  to  think  of  everything  to  please  his 
Majesty,  in  order  that  he  may  be  inclined  to  grant 
what  you  have  so  much  at  heart." 

Mademoiselle  colours,  and  presses  her  hand  to  her 
heart,  so  violently  does  it  throb. 

"Madame  de  Montespan,"  continues  the  Marquise, 
*'has  the  highest  admiration  for  the  constancy  and  the 
fortitude  you  have  shown  on  a  certain  subject,  ma- 
dame.     May  I  add  my  tribute  of  sympathy  also?" 


THE   ROYAL  GOVERNESS.  277 

Mademoiselle  smiles,  and  bows  graciously.  She  is 
not  ignorant  of  the  growing  power  of  the  governess, 
and  her  high  favour  with  the  King. 

"We  who  live  at  Court,"  adds  the  Marquise  loftily, 
"know  too  well  how  often  great  princes  forget  those 
whom  they  once  loved.  Your  highness  is  an  illustri- 
ous exception.  May  I,  madame,  be  permitted  to  ad- 
dress you  on  this  delicate  subject?  It  is  the  purpose 
of  my  visit." 

"I  entreat  you  to  speak,"  cries  Mademoiselle, 
greatly  excited.  "Tell  me  at  once.  I  cannot  bear 
suspense.  Tell  me,  is  his  Majesty  about  to  liberate 
Monsieur  de  Lauzun  after  so  many  years  of  imprison- 
ment?" 

"Well,"  replies  Madame  de  Maintenon,  with  an 
air  of  immense  importance,  "you  shall  judge,  Princess. 
His  Majesty  thinks  that  it  is  possible,  under  certain 
conditions " 

"Will  he  acknowledge  Lauzun  as  my  husband?" 

"He  will  never  sanction  the  marriage,  your  high- 
ness," answers  the  Marquise  decidedly,  avoiding  Made- 
moiselle's eager  gaze. 

Here  is  a  blow!  Mademoiselle  is  absolutely  stunned. 
Madame  de  Maintenon  proceeds  in  the  same  mono- 
tonous tone: — 

"His  "Majesty  has  considered  the  possibility  of 
liberating  Monsieur  de  Lauzun,  but  there  are  difficul- 
ties, not  perhaps  insurmountable,  but  which  at  present 
render  his  gracious  intention  impossible." 

"Name  them,"  cries  Mademoiselle  almost  fiercely, 
suddenly  sitting  upright  in  her  chair — "name  them 
instantly."     She    has    turned    ashy    pale;    her    hands. 


278  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

which  she  extends  towards  the  other  lady  in  her  agita- 
tion, tremble.     She  is  a  pitiable  object. 

"Why,  the  fact  is,"  and  the  wily  governess  hems 
once  or  twice,  gives  a  slight  cough,  then  clears  her 
voice,  "his  Majesty  does  not  choose  that  the  princi- 
pality of  Dombes  and  the  Chateau  and  estates  of  Eu, 
with  which  he  is  informed  you  have  invested  Monsieur 
de  Lauzun,  should  go  out  of  the  royal  family.  This 
is  the  difficulty  which  at  present  weighs  with  the  King. 
Madame  de  Montespan  uses  all  her  eloquence  in  your 
favour,  madame." 

"I  am  obliged  to  her,"  answers  Mademoiselle  drily, 
"It  was  rumoured  that  she  vvas  the  person  who  caused 
his  Majesty  to  withdraw  his  consent  to  my  marriage." 

This  is  dangerous  ground,  and  Madame  de  Main- 
tenon  hastens  to  change  the  subject;  she  well  knows 
how  true  are  Mademoiselle's  suspicions. 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  King's  reasons," 
is  her  cautious  rejoinder.  "Doubtless  they  are  excel- 
lent." Then  she  glances  towards  the  door  as  if  about 
to  go.  "Even  with  your  royal  highness  I  must  be 
excused  canvassing  what  these  reasons  are.  I  came 
simply  to  deliver  a  message  with  which  I  was  entrusted, 
and  to  carry  back  to  his  Majesty  your  answer." 

This  speech,  delivered  with  the  most  freezing  cold- 
ness, almost  frightens  Mademoiselle  into  a  fit.  She  is 
quite  unable  to  argue  with  Madame  de  Maintenon, 
greatly  her  superior  in  intellect  and  in  craft,  specially 
now,  when  her  excited  feelings  barely  permit  her  to 
understand  what  is  passing.  She  has  sense,  however, 
to  make  a  sign  to  the  Marquise,  intimating  her  plea- 
sure that  she  should  not  depart,  which  she  is  prepar- 
ing to  do. 


THE  ROYAL  GOVERNESS.  279 

"His  Majesty  observed,"  continues  that  lady,  look- 
ing steadfastly  out  of  the  window,  "that  it  seems 
strange  these  royal  appanages  should  pass  away  into 
an  undistinguished  family,  while  those  who  are  near 
and  most  dear  to  his  Majesty  are  at  this  time  abso- 
lutely portionless — the  Due  de  Maine,  for  instance." 

"What!"  exclaims  Mademoiselle,  "is  it  only  by 
enriching  the  Due  de  Maine  that  the  Comte  de  Lauzun 
can  be  liberated  "J"  As  she  puts  this  question  her  eyes 
flash,  and  her  brow  darkens.  Then,  seeing  the  stony 
gaze  of  the  imperturbable  Marquise  fixed  upon  her, 
she  composes  herself,  and  awaits  her  reply  with  more 
calmness. 

"I  must  again  entreat  your  highness  to  remember," 
answers  Madame  de  Maintenon,  rising  from  her  chair, 
and  dropping  her  eyes  on  the  ground  with  affected 
humility,  "that  I  am  here  only  as  an  ambassadress.  I 
beg  your  highness  to  excuse  aught  I  may  have  said  to 
offend  you.  But,  as  I  perceived  a  way  of  accommoda- 
tion open,  I  ventured  to  approach  you  as  an  am- 
bassadress— simply  as  an  ambassadress."  These  last 
words  are  spoken  with  a  kind  of  unctuous  hypocrisy 
peculiar  to  herself.  "Now,  madame,  if  you  permit,  I 
will  take  my  leave.  My  duties  call  me  back  to  my 
beloved  charges.  I  have  been  absent  too  long  already." 

Forthwith,  every  device  was  used  to  force  Made- 
moiselle into  compliance.  The  little  Due  de  Maine 
was  represented  as  being  fonder  of  her  than  of  any 
other  creature  breathing — one  of  those  singular  attach- 
ments, in  fact,  that  are  sometimes  observed  in  children, 
and  are  quite  unaccountable.  To  favour  this  asser- 
tion, the  worthy  pupil  of  Madame  de  Maintenon  was 
educated   in  a  system   of  deceit.     Every  morning  he 


280  OLD  COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

addressed  a  little  billet-doux  to  Mademoiselle,  re- 
presented as  the  genuine  effusion  of  a  young  and 
innocent  heart,  the  same  billet-doux  having  been  in- 
dited by  his  governess  overnight  and  copied  by  him- 
self. Bouquets,  presents,  kisses,  and  caresses  were 
lavished  in  the  same  manner.  The  child  played  his 
part  so  well  that  Mademoiselle  actually  believed  at 
last  in  this  simulated  attachment.  Madame  de  Mon- 
tespan  failed  not,  also,  to  pay  the  utmost  court  to 
Mademoiselle,  and  represented  to  her  how  earnestly 
she  used  her  influence  in  order  to  induce  the  King  to 
liberate  Lauzun.  After  these  manoeuvres  had  been 
continued  for  some  time,  and  the  two  intrigantes 
deemed  that  the  mind  of  Mademoiselle  was  sufficiently 
prepared,  Madame  de  Maintenon  again  set  forth  to 
pay  another  visit  at  the  Luxembourg  Palace. 

This  time  she  at  once  announced  that  the  King 
had  determined  to  liberate  Lauzun.  Mademoiselle,  in 
transports  of  joy  at  the  intelligence,  so  far  forgot  her 
dignity  as  to  embrace  the  cunning  messenger,  and  to 
load  her  with  thanks. 

After  this  ebullition  had  a  little  subsided,  Madame 
de  Maintenon  gravely  begged  Mademoiselle  not  to 
thank  her.  She  again  acted  merely  as  an  ambassadress, 
she  said.  "But,"  she  adds,  "there  is  one  person  who 
does  deserve  her  thanks;  for  nothing  can  exceed  the 
earnestness  with  which  he  has  urged  her  highness's 
petition.  Nay,  he  has  not  feared  to  encounter  the 
King's  anger,  so  constant,  so  energetic  have  been  his 
prayers.     It  is  to  him  her  gratitude  is  due." 

"Who  can  have  been  this  friend — this  benefactor?'* 
cried  the  Princess.  "Tell  me,  I  implore  you,  that  I 
may  load  him  with  my  gratitude." 


THE  IlOYAL  GOVERNESS.  28  I 

"1  can  quite  understand  your  feelings,"  returned 
Madame  de  Maintenon;  "your  wish  to  be  informed 
of  the  name  of  this  unknown  benefactor  is  most 
natural;  but  to  gratify  you,  I  must  break  a  promise — 
a  most  solemn  promise — I  have  made  never  to  reveal 
his  name.  He  did  not  desire  to  be  known;  he  wished 
to  serve  you  in  secret." 

"Don't  talk  to  me  of  secrecy,  madame,  in  such  a 
moment.  Tell  me  at  once  to  whom  I  am  so  deeply 
indebted." 

"If  I  must  speak,"  replied  the  inimitable  De 
Maintenon  (rejoicing  at  the  success  of  her  manoeuvres), 
"it  is  the  Due  de  Maine,  who  prevailed  on  his  father 
to  grant  the  petition  he  knew  would  so  delight  his 
beloved  friend,  and  protectress.  The  affection  he 
feels  towards  you  is  indeed  something " 

"The  darling  child!"  exclaimed  Mademoiselle, 
"how  I  love  him!  Is  it  possible  he  has  done  this  for 
me!  How  can  I  reward  himi — what  can  I  do  to  show 
him  how  grateful  I  ami" 

This  was  precisely  the  point  to  which  Madame  de 
Maintenon  had  been  labouring  to  bring  the  Princess. 
She  now  artfully  observed  that  there  was  only  one 
way  of  rewarding  the  disinterested  attachment  of  the 
Due  de  Maine  in  a  manner  worthy  of  Mademoiselle. 
"I  feel  bound,  however,"  she  continued,  "to  warn  your 
highness  that,  after  all  that  has  been  said,  and  the 
personal  interest  his  Majesty  feels  in  the  success  of 
these  negotiations,  he  will  be  so  incensed  at  any 
withdrawal  on  your  part  now,  that  your  personal 
liberty — yes,  madame,"  she  repeated,  seeing  the 
Princess's  look  of  terror,  "your  personal  liberty  will 
be  in  danger.     You  may  be  sent  to  the  Bastille!" 


282  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

The  mention  of  such  a  possibility  alarmed  Made- 
moiselle beyond  measure,  and  she  anxiously  inquired 
of  Madame  de  Maintenon  if  she  thought  there  was 
any  chance  of  such  a  misfortune! 

"Not  if  by  your  generosity  you  bind  his  Majesty, 
as  it  were,  to  fulfil  the  pledge  he  has  now  given," 
was  the  discreet  reply. 

Thus  did  Madame  de  Maintenon  unfold  her  tactics, 
and  work  on  the  weak  mind  of  the  love-sick  Princess. 
She  saw  that  the  point  was  already  gained,  and,  fear- 
ing to  destroy  the  favourable  impression  she  had 
made,  left  Mademoiselle  to  ruminate  on  the  approach- 
ing return  of  Lauzun,  and  all  the  happiness  in  store 
for  her.  Hastening  back  to  Versailles,  she  communi- 
cated her  success  to  the  King  and  to  Madame  de 
Montespan,  who  were  equally  delighted  at  the  triumph 
of  their  unworthy  artifices. 

CHAPTER    XXIX.       ^ 

Connubial  Bliss. 

The  Due  de  Maine  was  invested  with  the  prin- 
cipality of  Dombes  and  the  county  of  Eu.  The 
deeds  were  signed  in  Madame  de  Montespan's  apart- 
ments at  Versailles. 

The  sacrifice  once  made  nothing  could  exceed 
the  ecstasy  of  Mademoiselle.  After  a  separation  of 
many  years,  Lauzun  would  be  restored  to  her  arms! 
He  was  free — he  would  be  with  her  in  a  few 
days!  The  exquisite  certainty  of  bliss  intoxicated  her 
senses. 

On  her  return  to  the  Luxembourg  she  flew  to  her 
room,  and  took  a  hand  mirror  from  her  toilette.     She 


CONNUBIAL  BLISS.  28^ 

gazed  at  herself  in  it  attentively;  she  asked  herself, 
as  she  has  already  done  a  hundred  times  before, 
"Can  he  still  love  me?  Are  my  eyes  bright?  Are  my 
cheeks  rosy?  Is  my  hair  abundant  as  in  the  old  days 
when  Lauzun  praised  iti" 

The  examination  satisfied  her.  Joy  had  effaced 
the  wrinkles,  and  brought  a  passing  bloom  back  to 
her  face.  She  overlooked  her  grey  locks,  those  she 
could  powder.  Her  lips  parted  into  a  smile.  \Vhile 
she  was  still  looking  at  herself,  and  turning  her  head 
in  various  positions  in  order  to  catch  the  light,  a 
page  entered,  and  announced,  "Monsieur  de  Baraille" 
(he  was  a  friend  of  Lauzun).  Baraille's  sudden 
entrance  startled  her.  She  turned  round  abruptly, 
stumbled  against  a  chair,  and  the  mirror,  an  oval  of 
rock  crystal  set  in  a  gold  frame,  dropped  from  her 
hand. 

"Ah!    Monsieur  de   Baraille,"   she   cried,  looking 

at  the  fragments  which  strewed  the  floor,  "why  did 

you  come  in  so  suddenly?   This  is  a  dreadful  omen." 
****** 

Mademoiselle  de  Montpensier  is  at  Choisy.  The 
agitation  of  her  mind  is  indescribable.  She  has  the 
gravest  reasons  for  displeasure.  Lauzun  is  in  France, 
but  shows  no  desire  to  see  her. 

At  last  he  makes  his  appearance.  He  is  dressed 
in  an  old  uniform,  which  he  had  worn  before  his 
imprisonment;  it  was  now  too  short,  and  too  small 
for  him,  and  shabby  and  torn.  His  hair,  of  a  reddish 
shade,  has  fallen  off  during  his  long  imprisonment, 
and  he  wears  a  black  wig  with  flowing  curls,  which 
covers  his  shoulders.  He  enters  her  cabinet,  by  the 
gallery,  hung  with  the  portraits  of  her  ancestors.     At 


284  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

sight  of  him  Mademoiselle  springs  to  her  feet,  and 
opens  her  arms  to  embrace  him.  Lauzun  throws  him- 
self on  the  ground  before  her.  She  raises  him,  covers 
him  with  kisses,  murmuring  words  of  fond  endear- 
ment into  his  ear. 

For  a  few  moments  each,  overcome  by  widely 
different  feelings,  remains  speechless.  Lauzun  exa- 
mines her  curiously.  This  inspection  does  not  seem 
satisfactory.  He  knits  his  brow,  and  slightly  shrugs 
his  shoulders.  Altogether  his  manner  is  far  from 
reassuring.  He  does  not  care  to  conceal  his  surprise 
at  the  change  he  sees  in  the  royal  lady  beside  him. 
She  is  now  sixty,  her  face  is  pinched  and  lined  by 
age;  her  form  bent  and  attenuated.  She  has  put 
powder  on  her  grey  hair,  which  is  decked  with  rib- 
bons, and  rouge  upon  her  shrivelled  cheeks,  in  a 
vain  effort  to  appear  young.  But  even  her  blind 
infatuation  can  no  longer  deceive  her.  She  is  old  and 
she  knows  it. 

"I  must  ask  your  pardon,"  says  Lauzun  at  last, 
breaking  an  awkward  pause,  "for  having  been  so 
long  on  the  road  to  Paris  to  join  you.  My  health  is 
very  delicate,  it  is  weakened  by  long  confinement.  I 
was  ill  at  Amboise."  (The  truth  being  that  he  had 
been  engaged  in  a  violent  flirtation  with  the  wife  oi 
the  governor,  the  Marquise  d'Alluye.  Mademoiselle 
had  been  informed  of  this.) 

As  Lauzun  speaks.  Mademoiselle  raises  her  eyes, 
and  looks  him  in  the  face.  It  was  the  same  deep 
harmonious  voice,  full  of  subtle  melody,  that  had 
once  charmed  her  ear,  like  a  cadence  of  sweet  music. 
There  were  the  same  clear  eyes,  whose  glance  ruled 
her  destiny.      Those   eyes  that  had  haunted  her  day 


CONNUBIAL  BLISS.  285 

and  night  for  so  many  years,  through  the  mists  of 
time  and  absence.  There  were  the  features  whose 
every  turn  she  had  studied  with  unutterable  tender- 
ness; those  lips  which  had  parted  to  utter  words  on 
which  hung  her  very  life.  There  before  her  was  her 
Lauzun, — the  object  of  such  longing  desire,  such 
tortured  suspense;  of  such  eager  strivings,  of  such 
willing  self-sacrifice.     But  oh,  how  changed! 

Now  the  scales  had  fallen  from  her  eyes.  For 
the  first  time  she  saw  him  as  he  was.  He  was  her 
Lauzun  no  longer.  She  felt  that  she  was  repugnant 
to  him.  An  agony  of  grief  welled  up  within  her; 
she  could  have  screamed  for  very  bitterness  of  soul 
in  the  wild  impulse  of  her  despair.  But  at  this 
supreme  moment  her  pride  came  to  her  support. 
Should  she  let  him  mock  the  strivings  of  her  tortured 
spirit?  gauge  the  abyss  of  her  misery  with  his  cold 
steely  eye?  No;  mortal  as  were  the  wounds  his  cruelty 
had  inflicted ,  they  should  still  be  sacred.  She  would 
say  nothing.  As  she  looks  at  him  (and,  looking  at 
him,  gazes  also  through  the  long  vista  of  years  that 
his  presence  recalls)  she  composes  her  countenance  to 
an  unnatural  calmness,  and  she  replies  to  him,  in  a 
voice  almost  as  careless  as  his  own — 

"It  gives  me  infinite  pain  to  hear  you  have  been 
ill,  but  I  rejoice  to  see  you  so  perfectly  restored.  I 
never  saw  you  looking  better  in  my  life." 

A  glare  of  anger  passed  into  Lauzun's  eyes,  and 
he  frowned.  Again  there  was  a  long  and  awkward 
pause. 

"You  have  laid  out  a  great  deal  of  money  here 
at  Choisy,"  he  says  with  a  sneer,  his  eyes  wandering 
round.     "I  think   you   have  been   ill-advised   to  pur- 


286  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

chase  this  place.  It  is  a  mere  guinguette,  lying  in  a 
hole.  What  a  useless  building  it  is — so  ill  designed 
too!"  and  he  casts  his  eyes  contemptuously  down 
the  suite  of  rooms,  the  doors  of  which  are  open. 

"Some  people  think  it  is  not  good  enough  for 
me,"  answers  Mademoiselle  with  forced  calmness, 
although  her  lips  tremble  in  spite  of  herself. 

"Have  you  paid  for  it,  madame?"  asks  Lauzun 
with  the  utmost  impertinence. 

"I  have  paid  for  it,"  replies  the  Princess. 

Lauzun  now  rises,  and  strides  up  and  down  the 
cabinet.  He  strolls  into  the  adjoining  gallery,  eyeing 
the  precious  ornaments  with  which  the  tables  are 
covered.  He  takes  the  most  valuable  articles  in  his 
hands  and  carefully  examines  them,  holding  them  up 
against  the  light.  Then  he  returns,  stands  opposite 
Mademoiselle,  and  examines  her  features  with  a  stare 
of  cynical  scrutiny.  She  grows  crimson  under  this  in- 
solent inspection,  but  says  nothing. 

"You  would  have  done  much  better  to  have  given 
me  the  money  you  have  squandered  here.  I  have 
suffered  great  misery." 

"I  have  given  you  too  much  already.  Monsieur  de 
Lauzun,"  replies  Mademoiselle  in  an  unsteady  voice, 
for  his  heartless  greed  smote  her  to  the  very  soul. 

"I  fear  you  are  horribly  cheated,"  adds  Lauzun, 
not  noticing  her  reply.  Again  he  walks  up  and  down 
the  room.  "I  could  manage  matters  much  better  foi 
you.     Will  you  make  me  your  treasurer?" 

He  speaks  eagerly,  and  there  is  a  hungry  gleam 
in  his  eye  that  bodes  ill  for  Mademoiselle's  revenues. 

"No,  I  will  not,"  answers  Mademoiselle  firmly. 
"If  you  want  to  know,  I  have  paid  for  this  place  forty 


CONNUBIAL  BLISS.  287 

thousand  livres.  I  sold  my  string  of  pearls  to  pur- 
chase it." 

"Oh!  you  have  sold  your  string  of  pearls  without 
consulting  mel"  interrupts  Lauzun  with  an  offended 
air.     "What  waste!     What  folly!" 

He  stops  in  his  pacing  up  and  down  the  room, 
and  fixes  his  eyes  upon  her  in  another  silent  scrutiny. 

"I  see  you  still  wear  coloured  ribbons  in  your  hair. 
Surely,  at  your  age,  this  is  ridiculous." 

"The  Queen  does  the  same." 

"Are  you  not  older  than  the  Queen?" 

"I  am  old,  Monsieur  de  Lauzun,"  replies  Mademoi- 
selle, stung  to  the  quick,  yet  speaking  with  dignity; 
"but  persons  of  my  rank  dress  according  to  established 
etiquette.  Have  you  nothing  more  to  say  to  me, 
Lauzuni"  she  says  in  a  low  voice. 

She  can  bear  no  more;  her  pride  and  her  fortitude 
are  rapidly  forsaking  her.  She  feels  she  is  breaking 
down,  spite  of  herself.  She  longs  inexpressibly  to  fold 
Lauzun  in  her  arms,  to  tell  him  all  her  love;  to  be- 
seech him  to  return  it,  even  ever  so  little  a  return,  for 
that  vast  treasure  she  offers.  But  she  is  withheld  by 
absolute  shame. 

"I  have  made  great  sacrifices  to  restore  you  to 
liberty,  Lauzun,"  she  continues  timidly,  her  voice  al- 
most failing  her,  and  not  daring  to  look  up  at  him 
for  fear  of  encountering  his  chilling  gaze.  "I  have 
made  many  sacrifices.  I  understood  that  you  approved 
of  them."  Lauzun  does  not  answer.  Mademoiselle 
speaks  humbly  now,  for  what  is  money,  contempt,  in- 
sult to  her,  so  that  he  would  love  her,  only  a  little'? 
"I  have  also  made  arrangements  with  Colbert  to  pay 
your  debts." 


288  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

"I  am  obliged  to  you,"  replies  Lauzun,  with  a 
sneer.  "Let  me  tell  you,  however,"  and  he  advances 
close  to  where  she  is  sitting  and  fixes  his  eyes  fiercely 
upon  her — "Let  me  tell  you  I  would  rather  command 
the  Royal  Dragoons  and  be  back  again  at  Court  in 
attendance  on  the  King,  than  have  all  the  money  you 
have,  or  ever  can  give  me." 

Mademoiselle  turns  very  faint,  and  clasps  her 
hands.  Her  eyes  close,  as  if  she  is  going  to  swoon. 
Lauzun  contemplates  her  unmoved.  He  does  not 
offer  her  the  smallest  assistance. 

"Good  God!"  she  exclaims  after  a  while,  "how 
much  I  am  to  be  pitied!  I  have  despoiled  myself  and 
you  are  ungrateful." 

"Louise,"  says  Lauzun,  feeling  he  has  gone  too 
far,  stooping  and  trying  to  kiss  her  hand,  "spare  me 
hysterics.     Let  us  talk  business." 

.  "We  have  talked  nothing  else,"  cries  Mademoiselle, 
her  indignation  rising  at  his  heartless  indifference. 
"Not  a  word  of  affection  has  come  from  your  lips," 
her  voice  grows  thick  and  tears  rush  into  her  eyes. 
Spite  of  herself,  she  is  again  rapidly  giving  way.  It 
was  the  old  fight  between  heart  and  no  heart,  man 
who  feels  nothing,  woman  who  feels  everything. 

"I  want  my  place  at  Court,"  says  Lauzun  abruptly. 
"Will  you  use  your  influence  to  reinstate,  me?  Else, 
I  would  rather  have  remained  in  prison  at  Pignerol." 
He  speaks  in  a  tone  of  the  bitterest  reproach. 

"I  will  do  what  I  can,"  Mademoiselle  answers  in 
a  husky  voice. 

"Do  what  you  can!"  retorts  Lauzun,  turning  upon 
her  savagely,  "do  what  you  can!  Morbleu,  if  you  an- 
swer me  like  that,  I  will  tell  you  the  truth.    You  have 


CONNUBIAL  BLISS.  289 

ruined  me — you  have  destroyed  my  reputation — lost 
me  my  position.  Louise  d'Orleans,  I  wish  I  had  never 
seen  you!" 

"It  is  false,"  returns  Mademoiselle  in  a  loud  voice, 
her  passion  rising  at  his  injustice;  "it  is  false.  I  have 
not  injured  you — the  King  will  tell  you  so  himself." 
Lauzun  is  growing  more  and  more  defiant,  almost 
threatening.  His  hand  rests  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword. 
This  is  too  much  even  for  her  to  bear.  "If  you  have 
nothing  more  to  say,  Monsieur  de  Lauzun,  leave  me." 
She  speaks  with  the  habit  of  command  long  years 
have  given  her. 

"I  will  not  go,"  cries  he;  "you  have  no  right  to 
order  me.  Am  I  not  your  husband?"  Lauzun  hisses 
out  these  last  words,  more  like  a  venomous  serpent 
than  a  man.  He  grasps  the  arm  of  Mademoiselle, 
who  shrinks  away  from  him.  His  whole  bearing  is 
wild  and  menacing.  "You  leave  me  without  money, 
you  who  have  lost  me  all  I  value  in  the  world;  you, 
who  are  old  enough  to  be  my  mother!"  Mademoiselle 
covers  her  face  with  her  hands,  she  cowers  before 
him.  "Can  you  deny  if?  Instead  of  providing  me 
with  a  proper  residence  and  equipage  when  I  came 
out  of  prison,  I  have  not  even  a  carriage  of  my  own. 
I  am  in  miserable  lodgings  with  Rollinde,  one  of  your 
people,  while  you — you  live  in  a  palace.  I  have  no 
money  to  pay  my  debts." 

"It  is  false,"  she  replies,  rising  and  facing  him 
boldly.  "I  have  paid  your  debts.  If  you  have  fresh 
ones  they  are  gambling  debts.   Those  I  refuse  to  pay." 

"But  you  shall!"  roars  Lauzun,  stamping  his  foot 
and  raising  his  hand  as  if  to  strike  her.  "I  am  your 
husband.     I  have  a  right  to  all  you  have." 

Oid  Court  Life  in  France.   II.  '9 


290  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

"I  will  pay  no  more,"  shrieks  Mademoiselle,  now 
excited  beyond  fear.  "Go  to  your  friends,  those 
ladies  you  love  so  well,  Madame  de  Montespan  and 
the  others."  She  clenches  her  fist  as  the  bitter  pangs 
of  jealousy  shoot  through  her  soul.  "I  will  not  pay 
such  debts,"  she  repeats;  then  she  draws  herself  up, 
and  faces  him  with  a  courage  he  has  never  seen  in 
her  before.     It  calms  him  instantly. 

"Look  at  these  diamond  buttons  you  sent  me. 
They  are  vile.  You  have  such  splendid  jewels!"  He 
lifts  up  his  lace  ruffles  and  displays  a  pair  of  solitaire 
diamonds  of  great  beauty,  which  fasten  his  wristbands. 
He  is  as  fawning  and  eager  as  a  beggar. 

"I  will  give  you  other  diamonds,"  answers  Made- 
moiselle with  composure.  "But  what  I  do  for  you  in 
future  depends  on  your  own  conduct,  Monsieur  de 
Lauzun,  or  rather  Due  de  Montpensier,  for  such  I 
have  created  you." 

There  was  a  depth  of  irony  in  thus  addressing  him 
by  his  title  at  this  particular  moment. 

"Well,  madame,  as  you  please,"  answers  Lauzun, 
contemptuously  scanning  her  all  over.  "If  I  am  not 
satisfied  I  shall  go  abroad  and  command  foreign 
armies.  I  will  go  anywhere  to  rid  myself  of  you.  I 
hope  never  to  see  you  again,"  and  a  look  of  undis- 
guised hatred  flashes  from  his  eyes. 

"You  need  not  go  far  to  rid  yourself  of  me,"  cries 
Mademoiselle,  incensed  beyond  bounds.  "Leave  me 
instantly,  ungrateful  man!  You  have  sufficiently  out- 
raged me.  In  the  presence  too  of  my  great  ancestors," 
she  adds,  and  with  a  stately  action  she  extends  her 
hand  towards  the  portraits  which  hang  around;  "those 
ancestors,   one  of  whose  time-honoured   titles  I  have 


CONNUBIAL  BLISS.  2gi 

given  you.  You  might,  I  think,  have  chosen  a  more 
suitable  spot  for  your  insults,"  and  she  measures  him 
from  head  to  foot.  Then  with  an  imperious  gesture 
she  points  to  the  door. 

Still  they  met,  Mademoiselle  yet  dung  to  Lauzun. 
In  the  month  of  September  they  are  together  at  Choisy 
for  a  few  days.  Lauzun  has  enormous  gambling  debts 
and  wants  money,  therefore  he  is  come.  On  returning 
one  evening  from  hunting  he  sees  Mademoiselle  seated 
under  the  shade  of  one  of  the  fine  old  elms  in  the 
park,  her  favourite  tree.  She  is  in  tears.  It  is  nine 
o'clock  at  night,  she  has  long  awaited  his  return;  now 
it  is  nearly  dark.  Lauzun  gallops  up  to  where  she 
sits.  He  dismounts,  gives  his  horse  into  the  hands  of 
a  servant,  and  casts  himself  on  the  grass  beside  her. 
By  so  doing  he  splashes  her  dress  with  mud,  but  he 
offers  no  apology.  He  unfastens  the  heavy  hunting 
boots  he  wears,  and  endeavours  to  draw  them  off,  but 
he  does  not  succeed.  Then  he  turns  suddenly  round 
and  thrusts  them  into  her  face. 

"Here,  Louise  d'Orleans,"  he  says,  "make  yourself 
useful;  take  off  my  boots."  Mademoiselle  betrays  no 
emotion,  she  only  rises  and  returns  to  the  house. 

They  never  met  again.  A  brief  record  remained 
of  her  existence,  graven  on  the  tomb,  where  she  lay, 
among  "the  daughters  of  France,"  unloved — unmourned; 
a  sad  example,  that  riches  to  a  woman  are  too  often  a 
curse.     The  brief  record  is  as  follows: — 

"Anne  Marie  Louise  d'Orleans,  eldest  daughter  of 
Gaston  de  France;  Souveraine  Princesse  de  Dombes, 
Princesse  Dauphine  d'Auvergne,  Comtesse  d'Eu, 
Duchessse   de  Montpensier;    died    1693,    aged   sixty- 


six." 


19' 


292  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN   FRANCE. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 
Fall  of  De  Montespan. 

About  this  time  Madame  de  Maintenon  announced 
to  the  King  that  she  had  received  a  mission  from 
heaven  to  convert  him  from  the  error  of  his  ways.  "I 
was  brought  to  Court  miraculously  for  this  purpose; 
God  willed  it,"  she  writes  to  her  daughter.  Singularly 
enough,  this  conviction  of  her  mission  coincided  with 
the  absence  of  Madame  de  Montespan  at  the  baths  of 
Bourbon. 

Louis  had  come  to  view  these  temporary  absences 
as  a  relief.  He  had  grown  somewhat  weary  of  the 
once-adored  Marquise.  He  inclined  to  think  the 
society  of  Madame  de  Maintenon  preferable.  In  her 
company  the  charms  of  friendship  exceeded  the  de- 
lights of  love.  She  was  leading  him  up  to  heaven  by 
an  easy  path  strewn  with  flowers.  Conscious  as  he 
was  of  his  past  sins,  he  yet  liked  the  process  of  re- 
jjentance. 

The  apartments  of  Madame  de  Maintenon  at  Ver- 
sailles, on  the  same  floor  as  his  own,  were  well  placed 
for  constant  intercourse.  They  no  longer  exist,  but 
the  situation  is  identified  as  having  been  near  the 
south  wing,  contiguous  to  his  own  suite,  v.hich  was 
separated  from  that  of  the  Queen  by  the  Salle  de  TCEil 
de  Boeuf,  a  corridor,  and  some  smaller  rooms. 

The  affection  of  her  pupil,  the  Due  de  Maine,  and 
the  esteem  and  approval  of  the  Queen,  strengthened 
Madame  de  Maintenon's  position.  Maria  Theresa  quite 
venerated  the  ci-devant  Veuve  Scarron. 

Maria  Theresa,  who  refused  to  doubt  La  Valli^re's 


FALL  OF  DE  MONTESPAN.  293 

purity,  and  who  long  defended  the  virtue  of  Madame 
de  Montespan,  was  born  to  be  a  dupe.  Her  unsus- 
picious nature  fell  an  easy  prey  to  the  duplicity  of 
Madame  de  Maintenon,  who  would  have  imposed  on 
a  stronger-minded  person  than  the  guileless  Queen. 
The  King  carefully  intensified  these  good  impressions. 
He  confided  to  his  consort  the  conviction  of  Madame 
de  Maintenon  that  he  would  infallibly  be  "damned" 
if  he  did  not  cleave  to  herself  alone,  and  live  with  her 
in  love  and  unity.  Such  words  from  the  lips  of  her 
august  husband,  whom  she  had  all  her  life  worshipped 
too  entirely  to  have  dared  to  appropriate  to  herself, 
won  the  Queen's  whole  heart.  Never  had  she  been  so 
blessed.  Her  Olympian  spouse  spent  hours  beside 
her;  his  conduct  was  exemplary.  Maria  Theresa,  over- 
come by  the  weight  of  her  obligations  to  the  wily 
gouvernante,  treated  her  with  the  utmost  distinction. 
She  joined  with  the  King  in  appointing  her  lady  in 
waiting  to  the  new  Dauphine. 

By-and-by  Madame  de  Montespan,  having  finished 
her  course  of  drinking  and  bathing  at  Bourbon,  re- 
turned. That  the  waters  had  agreed  with  her  was 
evident.  Her  eyes  were  more  voluptuous,  her  aspecit 
more  enticing  than  ever.  For  a  time  the  King's  con- 
viction of  Madame  de  Maintenon's  mission  wavered; 
he  forgot  his  salvation. 

Madame  de  Maintenon,  invested  with  the  authority 
of  a  Christian  prophetess,  denounced  his  apostacy. 
Madame  de  Montespan  was  furious;  quarrels  ensued 
between  herself  and  Madame  de  Maintenon,  in  which 
the  choleric,  frank-spoken  sinner  was  overruled  by  the 
crafty  saint.  The  King,  called  in  as  umpire,  decided 
always  in  favour  of  the  latter;   she  could   clothe   her 


294  ^LD   COURT  LIFE  IN   FRANCE. 

wrongs  in  such  eloquent  language,  she  was  so  specious, 
so  plausible,  she  continued  to  identify  herself  so  en- 
tirely with  his  salvation,  that  he  again  became  repen- 
tant. His  coldness  towards  her  rival  increased.  This 
rival,  the  governess  of  her  children,  insulted  Madame 
la  Marquise  de  Montespan.  Her  fury  knew  no  bounds. 
She  felt  that  her  fall  was  approaching;  that  the  ground 
on  which  she  stood  was  undermined.  She  denounced 
her  treacherous  governess  to  the  King;  she  declared 
that  the  Veuve  Scarron  had  not  been  immaculate. 
She  even  caused  a  pamphlet  to  be  printed  in  which 
names,  places,  dates,  and  details  were  given.  She 
showed  it  to  the  King;  Louis  shook  his  head,  and 
replied  that  she  had  herself  defended  her  protegee  so 
ably  that  he  was  unalterably  convinced  of  her  virtue. 
The  Marquise  de  Montespan  was  bowed  out  of  Ver- 
sailles. 

****** 

The  influence  of  Madame  de  Maintenon  changed 
the  atmosphere  of  the  Court.  A  holy  calm  succeeded 
to  strife  and  agitation.  Gallantry,  gambling,  intrigues, 
and  women  no  longer  formed  the  staple  of  general 
conversation.  Religious  discussions,  theological  dis- 
putes, and  ecclesiastical  gossip  became  the  fashion. 
Anecdotes  of  the  various  Court  confessors  were  dis- 
cussed in  the  CEil  de  Boeuf  with  extraordinary  eager- 
ness. The  priest  of  Versailles  was  a  more  important 
personage  than  a  royal  duke;  Bossuet  had  more  in- 
fluence that  Louvois;  P^re  la  Chaise  overtopped  the 
great  Louis  himself  The  Court  ladies  became  decided 
prudes,  rolled  their  eyes  sanctimoniously,  wore  lace 
kerchiefs,  renounced  rouge,  and  rarely  smiled.  No 
whisper   of  scandal   profaned    the   royal   circle.      His 


FALL  OF  DE   MOXTESPAN.  295 

Majesty  was  subdued  and  serene,  assiduous  in  the 
affairs  of  religion,  and  constant  in  his  attendance  on 
his  comely  directress. 

On  the  30th  July,  1683,  the  Queen  died.  She  ex- 
pired in  the  arms  of  Madame  de  Maintenon.  On  her 
death-bed  she  gave  her  the  nuptual  ring  which  she 
had  received  from  his  Majesty.  This  gift  was  signifi- 
cant. 

The  concealed  ambition  of  Madame  de  Maintenon, 
her  greed  of  dominion,  the  insolence  of  the  inferior 
about  to  revenge  the  wrongs  suffered  in  her  obscurity, 
a  sense,  too,  of  her  own  power,  now  roused  her  to 
grasp  that  exalted  position  which,  even  while  the 
Queen  lived,  had  tempted  her  imagination.  Now  began 
a  system  of  coquetry,  so  refined,  as  to  claim  the  dis- 
tinction of  a  fine  art.  The  lady  is  forty-five,  and  looks 
young  and  fresh  for  her  age;  her  hair  is  still  black  and 
glossy;  her  forehead  smooth,  her  skin  exquisitely  white; 
her  figure  lissom  and  upright,  if  ample.  There  is  a 
hidden  fire  in  her  stealthy  eyes;  a  grandeur  in  her 
bearing,  that  charms  while  it  imposes.  Not  all  the 
vicissitudes  of  her  chequered  career  can  wash  out  the 
blood  of  the  d'Aubignes  which  flows  in  her  veins.  The 
old  King  is  desperately  in  love  with  her.  It  is  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  has  encountered  any  opposi- 
tion to  his  will.  There  is  a  novelty  in  the  sensation 
wonderfully  enthralling.  The  conquest  of  a  lady  who 
can  thus  balk  him  acquires  an  enormous  importance 
in  his  eyes.  He  has  run  the  fortune  of  war  both  at 
home  and  abroad;  he  has  carried  fortresses  by  storm, 
assailed  the  walls  of  great  cities;  he  has  conquered  in 
the  open  plain;  but  here  is  a  female  citadel  that  is 
impregnable.     His   attack  and  her   defence   are   con- 


2gt)  OLD    COURT    LIFE   IN   FRANCE. 

ducted  in  daily  interviews,  lasting  six,  and  even  ten 
hours.  If  he  can  win  her,  he  feels  too  that  his  salva- 
tion is  insured.  A  life  of  repentance  passed  with  such 
an  angel,  is  a  foretaste  of  celestial  bliss.  There  is 
something  sublime  in  the  woman  who  can  reconcile 
earth  with  heaven,  and  satisfy  his  longings  in  time 
and  eternity. 

*  *  #  #  * 

Suddenly  Madame  de  Maintenon  announces  her 
intention  of  leaving  the  Court  for  ever. 

The  King,  who  occupies  his  usual  place  in  her 
saloon,  sitting  ib  an  arm-chair  placed  between  the 
door  leading  into  the  ante-chamber  and  the  chimney- 
piece,  listens  with  speechless  dismay. 

Madame  de  Maintenon,  who  sits  opposite  to  him, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  chimney-piece,  in  a  recess 
hung  with  red  damask,  a  little  table  before  her,  stitches 
calmly  at  the  tapestry  she  holds  in  her  hand.  She 
affects  not  to  observe  him,  and  continues  speaking  in 
a  full  firm  voice.  "My  mission  is  accomplished.  Sire. 
I  have  been  permitted  to  be  the  humble  instrument  of 
leadinjg  your  Majesty  to  higher  and  holier  thoughts. 
Your  peace  with  heaven  is  now  made.  I  desire  to 
retire,  leaving  my  glorious  work  complete." 

"What,  madame!  Do  I  hear  aright?  You  propose 
to  leave  me? — me,  a  solitary  man,  to  whom  your  society 
is  indispensable?"  There  is  a  deep  longing  in  the 
King's  eye  as  it  rests  upon  her,  a  tremulous  solicitude 
in  his  manner  that  she  observes  with  secret  joy. 

"Sire,  I  implore  you  to  allow  me  to  depart.  I 
yearn  for  repose.  I  have  remained  at  Court  greatly 
against  my  will,  solely  for  your  advantage." 


FALL   OF  DE  MONTESPAN.  2Q7 

"Remain  always,"  murmurs  the  King,  contemplat- 
ing her  fondly;  "my  life  —  my  happiness  —  my  very 
being  is  bound  up  in  you.  Deprived  of  you,  I  may 
again  fall  into  deadly  sin.     Do  not  forsake  me." 

These  last  words  are  spoken  in  a  whisper,  full  of 
tenderness.  He  rises  from  his  arm-chair  and  ap- 
proaches her,  Madame  de  Maintenon  looks  at  him 
sharply;  then  moves  her  chair  backwards.  Louis  stops 
midway  and  gazes  at  her  timidly.  He  returns  to  his 
arm-chair,  and  sighs  profoundly. 

"Impossible,  your  Majesty,"  replies  the  Marquise 
stiffly,  arranging  the  folds  of  her  dress.  "I  repeat,  my 
task  is  done.  The  Court  is  reformed,  your  salvation 
secure.  But,  while  benefiting  others,  I  have  exposed 
myself  to  calumny.  Sire,  I  am  called  your  mistress. 
1  am  branded  as  the  successor  of  Madame  de  Mon- 
tespan." 

"What  villain  has  dared  to  assail  your  immaculate 
virtuel  Tell  me  who  he  is,  and  there  is  no  punish- 
ment he  shall  not  suffer,"  and  the  King's  face  flashes 
scarlet.  There  is  the  old  look  of  command  upon  his 
brow — the  old  decision  in  his  manner. 

"Sire,"  answers  Madame  de  Maintenon  quietly, 
"such  passion  is  unnecessary.  I  am  not  worthy  of 
it.  I  have  already  done  all  that  is  needful,  let  me  go. 
I  can  serve  you  no  longer." 

"You  are  worthy,  madame,  of  all  that  a  man — that 
a  m.onarch  can  lay  at  your  feet,"  cries  Louis  with 
enthusiasm.  A  cynical  smile  plays  upon  her  full-lipped 
mouth  while  the  King  speaks. 

"I  am  at  least  worthy  of  respect,  Sire.  The  suspi- 
cion of  impurity  is  intolerable.  I  cannot  bear  it;  I 
must  go." 


298  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

"You  are  too  hurried,  dearest  madame,"  returns 
the  King;  "too  impressionable.  Whatever  observations 
may  be  aroused  by  our  intimacy,  and  my  well-known 
attachment  to  you,  they  should  not  annoy  you.  Your 
character  is  an  all-sufficient  defence." 

"Ah,  Sire,  this  is  not  sufficient.  I  must  fly  from, 
even  the  semblance  of  suspicion.  You  are  a  single 
man,  I  am  a  widow.  I  must  leave  Versailles.  Your 
Majesty  cannot  wish  me  to  remain,  to  become  an 
object  of  contempt." 

"Contempt?  Impossible!"  exclaims  Louis  abruptly. 
"No  woman  whom  I,  the  King  of  France,  have  loved, 
has  ever  suffered  contempt." 

No  sooner  were  these  words  out  of  his  mouth,  than 
the  King  had  reason  to  repent  having  uttered  them. 
The  outraged  prude  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  After 
all,  was  her  crafty  scheming  to  be  in  vain?  Would 
Louis  not  understand  that  as  a  wife — and  a  wife  only 
— she  would  remain? 

"Ah,  Sire,"  sobs  she,  with  genuine  sorrow,  "is  this 
the  return  you  make  for  my  too  great  devotion  to 
your  Majesty's  salvation?  I,  who  have  led  you  step 
by  step  towards  that  Deity,  whose  wrath  your  trans- 
gressions had  so  justly  incensed?  Is  it  for  this  I  have 
rescued  you  from  the  flames  of  Purgatory — the  fire  of 
everlasting  Hell?" 

Louis  turns  ghastly  pale;  a  nervous  tremor  seizes 
him.  He  dare  not  look  Madame  de  Maintenon  in  the 
face,  for  her  piercing  black  eyes  glare  upon  him,  and 
seem  to  scan  his  inmost  soul.  He  dare  not  interrupt 
her;  he  must  listen  to  all  she  has  to  say,  so  great  is 
her  empire  over  him. 

She  continues: — 


FALL   OF  DE  MONTESPAN.  2gg 

"Am  I  sunk  so  low  in  your  esteem  that  you  men- 
tion me  in  the  same  breath  with  a  Montespan,  a  Fon- 
tanges?  Alas,  I  have  soiled  my  good  name  to  serve 
you,  and  is  this  then  my  recompense?" 

As  she  speaks,  in  a  hard  resolute  voice,  her  re- 
proachful eyes  rivet  themselves  upon  Louis. 

''Do  you  forget,  Sire,  that  I  am  the  woman  whom 
your  sainted  Queen  specially  esteemed]  On  whose 
bosom  she  expired?  To  whom,  as  she  drew  her  dying 
breath,  she  gave  this  ring?" 

She  takes  from  her  finger  the  nuptual  ring  which 
Maria  Theresa  had  given  her.  It  was  a  single  diamond 
of  remarkable  brilliancy.  After  contemplating  it  for 
an'  instant  she  drops  it  on  the  floor,  midway  between 
herself  and  Louis,  then,  with  a  stately  gesture,  she 
rises  to  depart. 

The  impress  of  many  passions  is  visible  on  the 
countenance  of  the  aged  monarch.  Love  and  pride 
are  written  there.  Pride  is  on  his  broad  forehead — 
in  the  carriage  of  his  head — in  his  arched  and  bushy 
eyebrows — in  his  still  erect  form — in  the  action  of  his 
hands  and  arms,  as  they  grasp  the  chair  on  which  he 
sits  upright.  Pride,  intense,  inflexible  pride.  But  his 
dark  eyes  glow  with  passion.  Those  eyes  devour 
Madame  de  Maintenon,  as  she  stands  erect  before  him, 
her  eyes  turned  towards  heaven,  the  ring  at  her  feet. 
His  mouth,  around  which  deep  wrinkles  gather,  works 
— as  did  his  father's — with  a  nervous  spasm;  but  the 
parted  lips  seem  to  pant  for  the  beloved  object  before 
him.  At  length  he  raises  himself  slowly  from  his  chair 
— stoops — picks  up  the  nuptual  ring  of  his  first  wife 
— kis-ses  it,  and  places  it  on  the  finger  of  Madame  de 
Maintenon. 


300  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

'■^ Mon  amier  he  says,  with  solemnity,  "do  not  leave 
me.     As  your  husband  I  will  defend  you." 

Even  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.  pubUc  opinion 
made  itself  heard.  Placards  appeared  upon  the  walls 
of  Paris  to  this  effect: — 

"  Lost— The  Royal  Sceptre.     The  finder  will  be  well  rewarded." 

The  next  day  was  announced,  in  the  same  place: — 

"The  Sceptre  found — Discovered  on  the  toilette  of  a  hypocrite. 

"The  Scales  of  Justice,  also  lost,  found  hidden  in  the  sleeve  of  a  Jesuit." 

Other  placards  followed;  they  ran  as  follows: — 

GRAND  SPECTACLE! 

His  Majesty    ....    Marionettes. 

In  the  Chapel  of  Versailles. 

Gratis  I 

On  a  day  to  be  hereafter  announced. 

Louis  XIV.  will  fill  the  part  of  Gafgantua;  Madame 
de  Maintenon,  Madame  Gigogne  ;  the  Abbe  Gohelin, 
Pierrot :  Pere  la  Chaise,  Satan  (the  lover  of  Madame 
Gigogne). 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

Queen  Maintenon. 

It  is  the  winter  of  1685.  The  night  is  dark  and 
starless.  Fast  falling  snow  makes  the  air  thick  and 
covers  the  ground  as  with  a  white  mantle.  An  icy 
blast  is  blowing,  chilling  alike  to  man  and  beast.  As 
eleven  o'clock  strikes,  the  Archbishop  of  Paris  leaves 
his  palace,  spite  of  the  inclement  weather.  He  is  alone 
in  his  coach.  Midnight  is  past  when  he  draws  up 
outside  the  great  gates  of  Versailles.  These  open 
silently.  He  drives  onward,  traversing  the  vast  court- 
yard, passing  the  equestrian  statue  of  Louis  XIV.,  until 


QUEEN  MAINTENON,  3OI 

he  reaches  the  Cour  de  Marbre,  between  the  two  pavi- 
lions of  the  central  portion  of  the  chateau.  Here  the 
outer  portal  at  the  foot  of  the  grand  staircase  is  ajar. 
Bontemps,  Governor  of  the  Palace  of  Versailles,  valet, 
confidant,  and  purveyor  generally  to  the  wants  of  his 
Majesty,  stands  behind  it  awaiting  the  Archbishop. 
He  holds  a  light,  which  he  carefully  shades  with  his 
hand.  Monseigneur  de  Harlay,  Archbishop,  descends 
from  his  coach  shivering  all  over.  His  teeth  chatter 
in  his  head,  not  only  from  the  cold  which  is  excessive, 
but  from  apprehension  of  what  he  is  about  to  engage 
in.  Bontemps  precedes  him  up  the  stairs,  holding  the 
light  in  his  hand.  They  traverse  whole  suites  of 
rooms,  a  spacious  hall,  a  long  gallery,  and  many  cor- 
ridors. No  word  is  spoken,  every  soul  is  asleep,  and 
it  is  urgent  they  should  remain  so.  Once  within  the 
King's  apartments  all  is  light,  warmth,  and  luxury. 
The  well-nigh  frozen  dignitary  revives.  Before  him  is 
the  King,  dignified,  composed,  and  cheerful.  With 
him  are  the  Marquis  de  Montchevreuil  and  the  Che- 
valier de  Forbin,  as  witnesses;  Pere  la  Chaise  is  also 
there  to  assist  the  Archbishop.  An  altar  is  dressed  in 
the  centre  of  the  room.  As  soon  as  his  Majesty  has 
saluted  Monseigneur  de  Harlay,  Bontemps  is  dispatched 
to  fetch  Madame  de  Maintenon.  She  loses  no  time 
in  appearing.  The  marriage  rites  are  performed  by 
Pere  la  Chaise,  confessor  to  the  King;  the  benediction 
is  given  by  the  Archbishop.  ' 

The  marriage  is  to  be  secret;  but  Louis  XIV. 
henceforth  addresses  her  as  '"'■Madame"  He  receives 
his  ministers  in  her  saloon;  the  Marquise  de  Main- 
tenon  the  while  sitting  upon  a  fauteuil  in  his  presence. 
These   are   royal   honours.     Monseigneur  le  Dauphin 


302  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

and  the  princes  of  the  blood  never  forgive  the  marriage. 

The  contempt  and  hatred  they  feel  towards  Madame 

de  Maintenon  cannot  be  concealed.    As  favourite  they 

had  tolerated  her;  as  wife  they  rebel  against  her.    Yet 

her  will  is  law.    The  Due  de  Maine  and  the  Due  and 

Duchesse  de  Bourgogne,   son  and  daughter-in-law  to 

Monseigneur,  are  the  only  exceptions. 

***** 

We  are  again  at  Choisy.  Every  window  is  a  blaze 
of  light,  the  terraced  garden  flashes  with  millions  of 
coloured  lamps.  The  Dauphin  and  his  consort,  the 
princes  and  princesses,  courtiers,  singers,  actors,  and 
poets,  fill  the  foreground.  Brocade  and  satin  sweep 
the  terraces;  cocked  hats  and  feathers,  ribbons,  lace, 
plumes,  jewels,  orders,  wave  and  glitter.  There  is  the 
sound  of  laughter  and  mad  jest — joyous  music  and 
voluptuous  feasting,  petit  soupers  and  masked  balls^ 
theatricals  and  concerts. 

Long  flights  of  marble  stairs  descend  through 
bosky  groves,  sweet  with  the  scent  of  lilac  and  honey- 
suckles, to  the  Seine,  on  whose  grassy  banks,  illumi- 
nated by  torches  and  bonfires,  a  flotilla  of  boats  are 
moored  under  the  overhanging  woods.  If  the  essence 
of  all  the  fetes  given  in  France  was  concentrated, 
the  result  would  be  Choisy  before  the  Revolution. 
In  the  hands  of  Monseigneur  it  is  a  miniature 
court,  rivalling  what  Versailles  was;  a  court  where 
youth,  joy,  and  beauty  reign  supreme.  Louis,  now 
old,  desires  that  all  the  world  should  be  old  like- 
wise—  fast,  pray,  confess  and  hear  sermons  like 
himself.  Choisy  is  a  scandal  to  him.  The  Dauphin 
receives  orders  to  quit,  and  take  up  his  abode  at 
Meudon.     Monseigneur,   a  short,  stout,  thick-set  man, 


QUEEN  MAINTENON.  305 

with  a  fair  complexion,  and  what  would  have  been 
handsome  features  had  his  nose  not  been  broken, 
appears  before  Madame  de  Maintenon,  the  real  ruler 
of  France.  She  is  seated  in  her  apartments,  working 
as  usual  at  her  tapestry.  She  does  not  rise  at  his 
entrance,   and  her  aspect  is  severe  and  repellant. 

"  Madame,"  says  the  Dauphin,  seating  .himself  at  a 
gesture  she  makes,  "can  you  explain  to  me  what  mo- 
tive has  induced  his  Majesty  to  banish  me  from  my 
favourite  residence  of  Choisy  V 

Madame  de  Maintenon  does  not  raise  her  eyes 
from  her  work.  "Banishment  you  call  it,  Monseigneur; 
you  mistake  the  term.  Not  banishment,  simply  a 
change  of  abode  designed  for  your  good,  by  his 
Majesty  your  august  father." 

"For  my  good]  Surely  I  am  of  an  age  to  judge 
for  myself!  If  I  cannot  live  where  I  please,  I  am  under 
arrest.  I  am  not  aware  in  what  I  have  merited  the 
royal  displeasure." 

"Observe,  Monseigneur  le  Dauphin,"  answers  the 
Marquise,  fixing  her  black  eyes  upon  him,  "the  King 
feels  no  displeasure;  on  the  contrary,  he  desires  your 
more  constant  presence  at  his  Court,  near  his  person." 
The  Marquise  spoke  these  words  with  special  emphasis. 

"Madame,  I  am  most  grateful  for  the  amiable 
manner  in  which  you  express  his  Majesty's  flatter- 
ing wish,  but  might  not  some  plan  be  found  to  unite 
my   presence   at  Court  with  my  residence  at  Choisyl" 

"Impossible,  your  highness.  In  a  monarchy  there 
can  be  but  one  sovereign.  The  Court  must  surround 
that  sovereign.  Now,  permit  r.ie  to  observe,  there 
are  two  Courts,  and  something  like  two  sovereigns." 


304  OLD   COURT   LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

"I  am  not  conscious,  madame,"  replies  the  Dauphin, 
with  dignity,  "what  action  of  my  life,  justifies  such 
an  accusation.  If  his  Majesty  desires  to  reprimand 
me,  as  a  father,  I  ask  the  favour  of  hearing  it  from 
his  own  lips." 

"Monseigneur,"  replies  Madame  de  Main  tenon,  with 
affected  humility,  "it  is  his  Majesty  who  speaks  by  my 
voice.  I  am  less  than  nothing  other  than  through 
him.  If  you  desire  to  know  what  causes  his  displea- 
sure, it  is  that  in  the  magnificent  fetes  you  give  at  Choisy 
he  observes  that  one  most  important  element  of 
society  is  omitted — an  element  his  Majesty  considers 
essential." 

"What  element,  madame?" 

"That  of  the  Church,  your  Highness." 

The  Dauphin  is  suddenly  convulsed  with  a  fit  of 
violent  laughter.     He  takes  a  hasty  leave, 

"The  Church  at  Choisy,  ma/oi!"  he  says  aloud 
when  he  has  safely  passed  the  ante-room  and  is  well 
"beyond  hearing.  My  old  master  Bossuet,  and  Bour- 
daloue,  and  the  Versailles  Jesuits  assisting  at  mid- 
night fetes  at  Choisy — what  a  notion!  I  must  tell  this 
to  Mademoiselle  Choin.     How  she  will  laugh?" 

Charlotte  de  Bavi^re,  second  wife  of  Philippe 
d'Orleans,  brother  of  the  King,  hated  the  "old  woman," 
as  she  called  Madame  de  Maintenon.  She  saw  through 
her  and  despised  her.  Madame  de  Maintenon  returned 
her  animosity  with  interest,  but  she  dared  not  provoke 
her.  There  was  something  about  this  frank,  downright 
German  princess  that  was  not  to  be  trifled  with. 
Whatever  her  eccentricities  might  be,  they  were  re- 
spected; she  was  left  in  peace  to  drink  as  much  beer 


QUEEN  MAINTENON.  305 

and  to  eat  as  many  saucissotis  as  the  peculiarity  of  her 
constitution  required. 

In  person  she  was  actually  repulsive;  her  pride 
was  a  by-word  and  a  jest;  but  she  was  a  faithful  friend 
and  a  true  wife,  and  continued  to  live  with  her  heart- 
less and  effeminate  husband,  Monsieur,  in  peace. 

On  her  son,  the  Due  de  Chartres,  afterwards  the 
Regent  Orleans,  she  doted.  In  her  eyes  he  was  per- 
fect. She  was  either  blind  or  indifferent  to  his  vices. 
But  even  he  was  not  exempt  from  the  violence  of  her 
temper.  When  she  was  told  that  he  had  consented  to 
a  marriage  with  Mademoiselle  de  Blois,  daughter  of 
Madame  de  Montespan,  she  struck  him  in  the  face. 
Then  she  flew  to  the  King.  The  doors  of  the  royal 
bedchamber  are  closed  by  the  attendant  Swiss,  but  the 
angry  voices  of  Charlotte  (Madame)  and  Louis  in 
angry  altercation,  penetrate  into  the  gallery  of  the  GEil 
de  Boeuf,  where  the  Court  awaits  the  moment  of  the 
royal  lever. 

"Sire,"  Madame  is  heard  to  say  in  her  guttural 
German-French  accent,  "I  am  come  to  forbid  the  mar- 
riage of  my  son  with  Mademoiselle  de  Blois." 

"How,  my  sisterl"  replies  the  full,  deep  voice  of 
the  King,  that  voice  which  usually  created  so  profound 
an  impression  on  the  nerves  of  those  whom  he  ad- 
dressed. 

"Yes,  to  forbid  it.  Had  your  Majesty  desired  an 
alliance  between  my  son  and  a  daughtet  of  your  con- 
sort, Maria  Theresa,  I  should  have  considered  it  my 
duty  to  submit." 

"Oh!"  exclaims  the  King  in  aloud  voice,  and  quick 
steps  are  heard  pacing  up  and  down  the  room,  "you 

Old  Court  Lift  in  France.   11.  20 


306  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

would  have  condescended  to  accept  a  princess-royal 
for  your  daughter-in-law!" 

"Certainly,  Sire;  but  because  I  committed  a  mesal- 
liance myself  in  marrying  your  brother,  Philippe 
d'Orleans " 

^'■Pardieu!  madame,"  breaks  in  the  King.  "Do 
you  talk  of  a  mesalliance  with  a  grandson  of  Henry 
the  Great?" 

"Certainly  I  do,  your  Majesty,  What  was  Henry 
the  Great,  but  an  obscure  Prince  of  Beam,  a  beggarly 
little  State  among  the  valleys  of  the  Pyrenees?  Does 
your  Majesty  think  that  the  hundred  quarterings  of  my 
escutcheon  will  gain  lustre  by  the  arms  of  Bourbon?" 

Louis  is  heard  to  stamp  on  the  floor.  "Madame," 
he  cries,  so  loud  that  his  words  echo  into  every  corner 
of  the  GEil  de  Boeuf,  "Madame,  you  forget  yourself. 
How  dare  you  come  here  to  insult  me?" 

"Sire,  I  come  here  to  tell  you  the  truth.  My  son, 
the  Due  de  Chartres,  has  forgotten  himself  by  listening 
for  one  instant  to  your  proposal.  With  my  own  hand 
I  have  chastised  him  as  he  deserves.  I  do  not  forget 
myself,  whatever  others  may  do.  Philippe  is  too  good 
for  any  princess  in  Europe.  The  blood  in  his  veins  is 
that  of  my  ancestors — the  Princes  Palatine  of  the 
Rhine.  We  laugh  at  your  modern  houses — we  laugh! 
Philippe  is  the  best  man  in  your  Court.  He  knows 
everything — painting,  music,  poetry,  science.  None  of 
you  can  understand  him.    You  are  too  ignorant." 

"Madame,"  the  King  is  heard  to  say,  "have  a 
care — you  are  going  too  far!" 

"No,  my  brother,  I  have  not  gone  far  enough," 
rejoins  Madame.  "You  have  forgotten  the  siege  of 
Mons,  where   he   fought  under  your   own   eyes — also 


QUEEN  MAINTENON.  3O7 

Steinkerque  andNerwinde.  It  is  your  fault  that  Philippe 
does  not  command  your  armies.  He  is  equal  to  it. 
Who  would  not  have  such  a  husband?  Sire,  my  son, 
the  Due  de  Chartres,  shall  never  wed  with  your 
bastard!" 

Again  Louis  is  heard  to  stamp  upon  the  floor. 
Then,  in  a  voice  hoarse  with  rage,  he  replies,  "Madame, 
I  shall  hold  my  brother  responsible  for  your  insolence." 

"Why  have  you  provoked  it,  then?"  is  the  reply  in 
a  calmer  tone.  Charlotte  de  Bavi^re  has  evidently  re- 
lieved her  own  violence  by  exciting  that  of  the  King. 
"I  have  a  right  to  resist  such  a  disgraceful  proposal. 
Withdraw  your  marrige,  and  I  am  again  your  good 
sister  and  friend  as  heretofore." 

"We  shall  see,  Madame,  we  shall  see!"  shouts  the 
King,  whose  usual  courtesy  towards  women  is  not 
proof  against  such  an  attack. 

"Yes,  Sire,  we  shall  see.  No  person  on  earth 
shall  make  me  sanction  a  blot  on  my  name.  My  op- 
position shall  not  be  only  in  words.  The  Due  de 
Chartres  is  my  only  son.  I  will  stop  the  marriage 
in  your  presence.  I  will  stop  it  at  the  altar  of  the 
chapel-royal." 

"Madame,  your  pride  has  turned  your  head.  But 
your  husband,  my  brother,  shall  obey  me." 

"Your  brother,  Sire,  will,  I  know,  in  this,  as  in 
all  else,  be  advised  by  me.  I  can  defend  the  honour 
of  his  house  much  better  than  he  can  iiimself,  and  he 
knows  it.  Your  brother  will  do  his  dut)',  I  shall  do 
mine.     I  wish  your  Majesty  good  day." 

The  sound  of  the  King's  cane  is  audible,  striking 
heavily  on  the  floor  as  he  strides  up  and  down  the 
room.     The  door  of  his  bedchamber  opens;  Charlotte 

20  • 


308  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

de  Baviere,  crimson  in  the  face,  appears.  She  calls 
her  people  together,  and  hastily  departs,  followed  by 
the  wondering  glances  of  the  courtiers,  standing  in 
groups  about  the  OEil  de  Boeuf. 

The  King  fearing  that  there  was  no  chance  of 
overcoming  the  opposition  of  Madame,  either  by  per- 
suasions or  by  threats,  consulted  Madame  de  Maintenon. 
With  characteristic  duplicity,  she  advised  that  what 
could  not  be  done  openly,  must  be  brought  about  by 
stratagem.  She  sent  for  the  Abbe  Dubois,  the  dme 
damnee  of  the  young  Duke,  his  tutor  and  his  com- 
panion, and  by  promises  of  money  and  speedy  pre- 
ferment she  completely  made  him  her  own.  Dubois 
promised  to  hurry  on  the  marriage  with  or  without 
the  consent  of  Madame.  The  Duke,  who  loved  his 
mother,  and  respected  her  scruples,  only  yielded  when 
Dubois  artfully  represented  to  him  the  certain  loss  of 
all  influence ,  as  well  as  the  personal  animosity  of  the 
King,  if  he  refused. 

Philippe  d'Orleans  met  Mademoiselle  de  Blois  in 
the  apartment  of  Madame  de  Maintenon.  The  mar- 
riage took  place  at  Versailles. 

Madame  was  furious  at  what  she  termed  her  "dis- 
honour." She  wept,  abused,  menaced,  and  scolded 
by  turns.  But  finding  that  there  was  no  redress,  that 
the  marriage  was  legal,  and  that  further  opposition 
might  rouse  the  vengeance  of  the  King,  she  gradually 
cooled  down  and  received  her  new  daughter-in-law 
with  tolerable  civility;  particularly  as  the  marriage 
with  Mademoiselle  de  Blois  continued  the  possession 
of  the  Palais  Royal,  with  all  its  pictures,  sculptures, 
and   valuables,   in   the   Orleans   family,   a  gift   which 


QUEEN  MAINTENON.  3O9 

somewhat  served  to  gild  the  bitter  pill  she  was  called 
on  to  swallow. 

This  marriage  did  not  improve  the  Duke's  conduct  or 
character.  He  was  galled  by  what  he  had  been  forced 
to  do;  his  temper  was  soured;  his  excesses  increased. 
Nor  was  the  Duchess  of  a  disposition  to  endear  her- 
self to  any  husband.  Imperious,  luxurious,  and  bitter- 
tongued,  she  always  forgot  that  her  mother,  Madame 
de  Montespan,  was  not  the  wife  of  her  father,  and 
treated  the  Duke  as  her  inferior.  He  bore  her  extra- 
vagant pride,  and  listened  to  her  harangues,  re- 
proaches, and  taunts  (expressed  with  real  eloquence) 
in  silence.    Sometimes  he  called  her  Madame  Lucifer. 

With  such  parents  their  children  grew  up  in  habits 
of  licentiousness,  only  equalled  by  the  imperial  ladies 
of  Old  Rome. 

The  Duchesse  de  Berry — the  eldest  of  the  Regent's 
daughters — kept  her  court  at  the  Luxembourg  with 
regal  pomp.  She  received  ambassadors  seated  on  a 
throne,  surmounted  by  a  canopy  sprinkled  with  the 
hlies  of  France.  But  she  did  not  think  it  beneath  her 
dignity  to  do  the  honours  of  certain  pet  its  soupers  at 
the  Palais  Royal — too  well  known  to  need  further 
mention  here. 

Her  sister.  Mademoiselle  de  Valois,  was  as  remark- 
able for  her  beauty  as  for  her  lack  of  virtue. 

Mademoiselle  d'Orleans — third  daughter  of  the 
Regent — was,  if  possible,  more  wanton  than  her 
sisters.  To  the  eternal  disgrace  of  the  Church  she 
was  elected  Abbess  of  Chelles.  "  Tel  pire,  tel  fits" 
says  the  proverb. 


3IO  OLD    COURT   LIFE   IN    FRANCE. 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

At  Marly. 

There  is  a  lane  on  the  heights  over  Paris,  em- 
bowered by  wooded  hedge-rows,  or  skirted  by  open 
vineyards;  this  lane  leads  from  Saint-Germain  to 
Marly. 

Below  the  village,  deep  in  a  narrow  gorge,  is  the 
site  of  the  once  famous  palace  built  by  Louis  XIV. 
Trees  now  wave  and  cattle  browse  on  turf  where  once 
clustered  twelve  pavilions,  linked  together  by  arches 
and  colonnades,  in  the  Italian  or  villa  style,  to  suit 
the  royal  fancy  of  a  summer  retreat. 

Not  a  stone  has  been  left  by  the  Revolution;  what 
were  once  gardens  and  a  park,  is  now  a  secluded 
meadow.  Blue-bells,  thyme,  and  primroses  carpet  the 
mossy  earth;  and  the  thrush,  the  cuckoo,  and  the 
early  swallow  carol  among  pale  sprays  of  beech  and 
hazel.  There  are  deep  ditches  and  swampy  pools, 
once  carp-ponds  and  lakes,  part  of  a  plaisance,  ar- 
ranged in  the  solemn  taste  of  that  day,  when  nature 
itself  was  cut  and  trimmed  a  la  Louis  Qiiatorze. 

When  Louis  fixed  upon  Marly  as  a  residence  he 
was  tired  of  Versailles.  He  was  old,  he  said,  and 
needed  relaxation.  He  wanted  a.  folie,  a  hermitage — ; 
un  rien  enfin — where  he  could  retire  from  the  crowd 
and  the  restraints  of  his  Court,  sleep  three  nights 
in  each  week,  and  enjoy  the  society  of  his  special 
favourites. 

Either  the  King  altered  his  plan ,  or  his  architect 
(Le  Notre)  disregarded  the  royal  instructions.  Millions 
were  squandered  on  a  residence,  "which  was  to  cost  no- 
thing."   A  forest  of  full-grown  trees  was  brought  from 


AT   MARLY.  3II 

Compi^gne.  The  expense  of  draining  the  marshy  soil, 
and  elevating  the  waters  of  the  Seine  into  the  Machine 
de  Marly,  was  never  acknowledged. 

What  a  stiff,  solemn  tyrant  Louis  is  become! 
Selfish,  exacting,  pedantic,  intolerant,  dreaded  by  his 
children  and  grand-children,  and  exercising  over  them 
the  most  absolute  control.  Unhappy  royal  family, 
how  one  pities  them!  Marly  was  a  dreadful  infliction. 
Ill  or  well,  they  must  go.  The  Duchess  de  Bourgogne 
might  plead  her  interesting  situation,  and  the  positive 
prohibition  of  Fagon:  no  matter,  her  name  is  on  the 
list — she  must  go.  The  Duchesse  de  Berry — that 
profligate  daughter  of  the  Due  d'Orleans — is  in  her 
bed  seriously  ill:  her  mother,  the  Duchesse  d'Orleans, 
pleaded  for  her — in  vain;  if  she  could  not  walk  she 
must  be  carried — to  Marly  she  must  go.  She  was 
dragged  thither  in  a  boat. 

Madame  de  Maintenon  herself  dared  to  confess 
to  no  ache  or  pain  that  availed  to  rescue  her  from 
standing  in  the  cold  winds  on  frosty  mornings — for 
the  King  loved  the  open  air,  and  did  not  fear  weather 
— beside  him  while  he  fed  the  fat  carp  in  marble 
basins,  decided  upon  a  fresh  alley  to  be  cut  through 
the  woods,  or  upon  a  new  cascade  which  was  to 
pierce  the  hills,  or  a  larger  pavilion  to  be  added  to 
those  already  built. 

Nothing  could  be  a  greater  proof  of  favour  than 
to  be  included  in  the  "list"  to  Marly.  It  was  an 
honour  more  craved  for  than  a  ribbon  or  a  place  at 
Court.  The  names  of  the  distinguished  few  were 
written  down  in  the  King's  own  hand  (a  very  bad 
specimen  of  caligraphy),  after  due  consultation  with 
Madame    de  Maintenon.      She    was    fond   of   Marly, 


312  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

hence  its  favour  as  a  residence.  She  had  herself 
superintended  the  building,  seated  in  her  gilt  sedan 
chair,  the  King,  hat  in  hand,  standing  by  her  side. 
At  Marly  she  could  better  isolate  him  than  at  Ver- 
sailles. His  loneliness  threw  him  more  under  her 
influence  and  under  that  of  the  Due  de  Maine.  These 
two,  pupil  and  governess,  perfectly  understand  each 
other.  There  is  to  be  a  codicil  to  the  royal  will, 
virtually  passing  over  the  Due  d'Orleans,  his  nephew, 
to  invest  Maine  with  all  the  powers  of  a  Regent. 
Madame  de  Maintenon  represents  this  hypocritical 
son  of  De  Montespan  as  a  simple-hearted,  unosten- 
tatious man,  wholly  occupied  by  his  attendance  on 
his  Majesty  and  with  his  classical  studies.  The  King, 
whose  personal  activity  is  diminished,  and  whose 
powers  of  mind  are  impaired,  believes  it.  Louis, 
once  renowned  as  the  finest  horseman,  sportsman, 
runner,  dancer,  shot,  and  charioteer,  driving  four 
horses  with  ease  and  grace,  in  France,  is  now  stiff 
and  somewhat  infirm.  Too  indolent  to  move  about 
and  inquire  for  himself,  he  sees  and  hears  only 
through  Madame  de  Maintenon.  To  others  he  is  an 
unbending  autocrat. 

If  Louis  is  feared  as  a  parent  he  is  hated  as  a 
Sovereign.  The  denunciations  of  his  ci-devant  Pro- 
testant wife  in  the  interests  of  his  salvation  lash  him 
into  inexpressible  terror  of  perdition.  She  suggests 
that  he  can  best  expiate  the  excesses  of  his  youth  by 
a  holocaust  to  the  Almighty  of  all  the  heretics  within 
his  realm.  The  Jesuits  press  him  sorely.  Terrified 
by  threats  of  awful  judgments  upon  impenitent 
sovereigns,  Louis  signs  the  Revocation  of  the  Edict 
of  Nantes.     He   expels   the  Jansenists,   destroys  their 


AT  MARLY.  3I3 

pleasant  refuge  on  a  wooded  hill  near  Maintenon, 
accepts  the  Bull  Unigenitus ,  exiles  the  Cardinal  de 
Noailles,  and  fills  the  state  prisons  with  recusant  bishops. 

The    whole    of  France    is    in    indescribable    con- 
fusion.    The  south,  where  the  reformed  faith  prevails 
is  deluged  with  blood.    Many  thousands  of  industrious 
and    orderly    citizens    doom   themselves   to   perpetual 
exile  rather  than  abjure  the  Protestant  faith. 

Le  Grand  Momirque  is  now  a  lonely,  melancholy 
old  man.  Defeat  has  dogged  his  armies;  the  eleva- 
tion of  his  grandchild,  Philip,  to  the  throne  of  Spain 
has  well-nigh  brought  France  to  destruction.  Death 
has  been  busy  with  his  family:  the  Dauphin  is  dead; 
his  son,  the  Due  de  Bourgogne,  is  dead;  Adelaide  de 
Savoie,  his  wife,  most  justly  dear  to  Louis,  is  also 
dead;  and  now  there  only  remains  one  little  life,  their 
son,  the  infant  Due  d'Anjou,  between  himself  and  the 
extinction  of  his  direct  line.  The  Court  at  Marly  is 
as  lugubrious  and  austere  as  Madame  de  Maintenon 
and  the  Jesuits  can  make  it. 

Yet  a  shadow  of  the  pomp  and  etiquette  of  Ver- 
sailles is  still  kept  up.  On  certain  days  after  dinner, 
which  takes  place  at  noon,  his  Majesty  receives  the 
royal  family.  The  folding  doors  of  the  royal  suite  are 
thrown  open,  and  Louis  appears.  His  hat  with  over- 
topping feathers  is  on  his  head,  one  hand  is  placed 
upon  the  breast  of  his  coat,  the  other  rests  upon  an 
ormolu  table.  He  wears  a  diamond  star;  and  a  blue 
ribbon  is  passed  across  his  breast.  His  coat  is  of 
black  velvet,  his  waistcoat  of  red  satin  richly  wrouglit 
with  gold;  he  wears  diamonds  in  his  shoe-buckles  and 
in  his  garters.  On  his  head  is  a  ponderous  black 
wig,   raised   high   on   the   forehead.     This   black  wig 


314  OLD   eOURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE. 

gives  his  thin,  hatchet-shaped  face,  seamed  with 
wrinkles,  a  ghastly  look,  Louis  changes  his  wigs  many 
times  each  day  to  suit  various  occasions.  He  has  wigs 
for  all  emergencies.  In  figure  he  is  much  shrunk,  and 
is  slightly  bent.  As  he  stands,  his  hand  resting  on 
the  table  for  support,  every  movement  is  studied  to 
impose  silence  and  awe.  To  the  day  of  his  death  he 
is  majestic,  and  has  the  grandest  manners  in  the 
world. 

The  royal  family,  conducted  through  galleries  and 
colonnades  lined  with  exotics  and  orange-trees  (for 
Louis  loves  orange-flowers,  all  other  scents  and  es- 
sences, however,  are  forbidden),  pass  before  him. 
They  wear  mantles  or  mantelets  according  to  their 
rank.  To  the  obeisances  of  those  who  enjoy  the 
honour  of  Xht  fauteuil  his  Majesty  returns  a  decided 
bov/.  Others  who  occupy  tabourets  only,  receive  but 
a  qualified  acknowledgment.  People  who  sit  on  pliants 
are  not  received  at  Marly  at  all. 

After  the  reception  come  the  visits.  Those  who 
by  their  rank  are  entitled  to  receive  as  well  as  to  pay 
visits,  flutter  backwards  and  forwards,  with  painful 
activity.  Madame  la  Duchesse  or  Madame  la  Princesse 
rushes  out  of  one  door  and  in  at  another,  shouldering 
her  train,  to  salute  a  royal  personage  and  return  be- 
fore more  company  arrive  to  visit  herself.  Sometimes 
a  call  of  ceremony  is  arranged  to  Saint-Germain, 
situated  about  two  miles  from  Marly,  where  the  un- 
happy James  II.  and  his  Queen,  Mary  of  Modena,  re- 
side, as  annuitants  on  the  royal  bounty.  Here  the 
question  as  to  who  should  wear  mantles  and  who 
mantelets,  who  should  have  fauteuih  and  who  tabourets, 
complicates  itself  to  such  an  extent  (the  etiquette  of 


"tut?    f  VTr\  " 


THE  END"  315 

the  English  Court  having  also  to  be  duly  considered) 
that  even  his  Majesty  grows  embarrassed.  He  cuts 
the  Gordian  knot  by  not  sitting  down  at  all.  He 
exchanges  a  few  casual  phrases  with  the  exiled  Stuarts 
standing,  and  forthwith  returns  to  the  rural  retreat  of 
Marly. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 
"The  End." 

On  St.  Louis  day,  25th  of  August,  17 15,  the  King, 
then  seventy  seven  years  old,  felt  seriously  indisposed. 
The  disease  from  which  he  suffered  was  at  first  called 
sciatica.  On  the  15th  he  dined  in  his  bedroom  at  one 
o'clock.  Later  he  was  able  to  rise  and  was  carried 
into  the  saloon  of  Madame  de  Maintenon,  where  he 
met  his  ministers.  Next  day  he  presided  at  the 
council  of  state  held  in  a  room  adjoining  his  bed- 
room. On  the  25th  he  was  sensibly  worse.  On  the 
28th,  in  consequence  of  fatal  symptoms,  his  surgeon 
Marechal  proposed  to  amputate  his  leg.  The  aged 
King  scanned  the  surgeon's  face  attentively. 

"How  long  should  I  last  then?"  he  asked. 

Marechal's  hand  was  on  Louis's  wrist.  His  pulse 
did  not  vary  while  he  waited  for  an  answer. 

"In  that  case,"  returned  Marechal,  "your  Majesty 
might  hope  to  survive  some  days,  perhaps  some  weeks 
longer." 

"Then  it  is  not  worth  while,"  was  the  reply  in  a 
steady  voice.  "How  long  can  I  live  now,  Marechal? 
Tell  me  the  truth." 

"Till  Wednesday  most  probably,  your  Majesty." 


3l6  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   FRANCE. 

"Ah!  my  death  is  to  be  on  Wednesday,  It  is  welL 
It  is  not  so  hard  to  die  as  I  had  thought." 

He  said  no  more  at  that  time.  Madame  de  Main- 
tenon  sat  beside  him.  P^re  Letellier,  his  confessor, 
and  a  Jesuit,  hovered  about  his  bed.  In  his  hand  was 
a  paper  concerning  the  Bull  Unigenitus,  which  he 
urged  the  King  to  sign.  So  merciless  was  his  persist- 
ence, that  the  attendants  drove  him  from  the  room. 
The  Due  de  Maine,  and  his  brother,  the  Comte  de 
Toulouse,  watclied.  The  royal  will  and  codicil,  sealed 
with  seven  seals,  making  Maine  virtually  Regent,  was 
walled  up  until  the  King's  death.  The  parliament  was 
known  to  be  in  favour  of  the  Due  d'Orleans.  It  was 
needful  to  be  first  in  the  field.  Maine  never  took  his 
eyes  off  his  father.  There  lay  that  father,  his  pro- 
minent features  sharpened  by  approaching  death,  upon 
his  bed,  such  as  we  see  it  now,  for  no  other  monarch 
has  lain  in  it  since;  the  tester  and  framework  of  dark 
wood,  from  which  gloomy  satin  curtains  hang,  carved 
and  gilt,  and  guarded  by  a  ruelle  or  balustrade  of 
gilded  pillars,  which  none  dare  pass.  Upon  his  feet 
lay  a  counterpane,  worked  by  the  pupils  of  Saint-Cyr. 
On  the  walls,  near  enough  for  his  eye  to  rest  upon, 
hung  the  portrait  of  his  m.other,  Anne  of  Austria,  and 
two  other  pictures — St.  John,  by  Raphael,  and  David, 
by  Domenichino.  These  pictures  never  left  him,  even 
on  his  shortest  journeys.  On  the  mantlepiece,  near 
the  bed,  was  a  bust  of  his  dead  favourite,  Adelaide 
de  Savoie. 

At  the  King's  desire,  Madame  de  Ventadour  brought 
in  the  five-year  old  Due  d'Anjou,  son  of  the  Due  de 
Bourgogne,  his  great-grandson  and  successor.  "Allow 
me  to  kiss  him,  madame,"  said  Louis,  courteous  to  the 


"THE  END."  317 

last.  The  child  was  laid  upon  the  bed,  and  burst  out 
crying.  Madame  de  Ventadour  took  him  in  her  arms 
to  comfort  him.  "My  child,"  said  Louis,  bending  his 
dim  eyes  upon  the  rosy-cheeked  boy,  "you  will  soon 
be  King  over  a  great  people.  Give  thanks  to  God  for 
all  you  possess.  Keep  peace  with  your  neighbours.  I 
have  loved  war  too  much.  Do  all  that  I  have  left 
undone."  Again  and  again  he  kissed  the  frightened 
child,  ere  he  would  let  him  go. 

Then  he  desired  to  speak  with  such  nobles  and 
courtiers  as  Avaited  without.  "I  die,"  he  said,  "in  the 
Catholic  faith.  I  am  myself  ignorant  of  the  merits  of 
the  various  schisms  which  divide  it.  I  have  followed 
such  advice  as  was  given  me.  If  I  have  erred,  my 
advisers  alone  are  responsible,  not  I.  I  call  God  to 
witness  that  what  I  say  is  true.  Gentlemen,  I  bid  you 
all  good-bye.    Forget  my  bad  example.    Pray  for  me." 

Then  the  dying  monarch  turned  his  face  towards 
Madame  de  Maintenon.  who  was  seated  within  the 
ruelle  of  the  bed.  "Madame,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"I  regret  no  one  but  you.  I  have  not  made  you 
happy."  His  voice  hitherto  firm,  now  faltered.  "But 
I  have  one  consolation  in  leaving  you,"  he  added, 
"we  shall  soon  meet  again."  He  tried  to  look  at  her, 
but  Madame  de  Maintenon  turned  from  him  with  dis- 
gust.    She  shuddered. 

"What  a  rendezvous!"  she  muttered  half  aloud. 
"He  cares  for  no  one  but  himself"  Bolduc,  the 
King's  apothecary,  was  near,  and  heard  her  say  so. 
That  very  day  she  left  him  while  he  dozed,  and  drove 
away  to  Saint-Cyr. 

On    Sunday,    the    1st   of  September,   Louis   died. 


3l8  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  FRANCE 

His  confessor,  the  Jesuit  Letellier,  never  returned. 
Madame  de  Maintenon  remained  at  Saint-Cyr.  Save 
the  Cardinal  de  Rohan,  and  the  parish  priest  of  Ver- 
sailles, all  had  forsaken  him.  No  sooner  had  he 
breathed  his  last,  than  precautions  were  necessary  to 
guard  his  body  from  insult. 

While  the  first  lord  in  waiting,  standing  at  the 
central  window  within  the  royal  bedchamber  which 
overlooks  the  Cour  de  Marbre,  the  town  of  Versailles, 
and  the  forest,  broke  his  baton  of  office,  shouting  in 
a  loud  voice,  "The  King  is  dead!  Long  live  the 
King!"  blasphemous  songs  and  brutal  jests  passed 
from  group  to  group  of  low  women  gathered  along  the 
streets. 

When  the  funeral  procession  left  Versailles,  almost 
secretly  in  the  twilight,  reaching  the  Bois  de  Boulogne 
and  the  plain  of  Saint-Denis  by  tracks  and  country 
roads,  crowds  followed  it,  bellowing  horrible  impreca- 
tions. Along  the  causeway,  outside  the  barriers  of 
Versailles,  temporary  tents  were  pitched,  where  peasants 
stood,  glass  in  hand,  to  toast  the  corpse  with  curses. 
These  peasants  and  the  townsmen  of  Versailles  had 
heard  of  millions  squandered  on  royal  mistresses,  while 
the  people  starved;  of  war  abroad  and  persecutions  at 
home;  of  intolerance  which  spared  no  one;  of  ruin, 
exile,  imprisonment,  and  torture.  The  country  people 
and  the  populace  did  not  acknowledge  the  dead  as 
Louis  the  Great.  The  citizens  hated  him.  These  men 
neither  knew  nor  cared  that  he  had  a  sonorous  voice, 
a  measured  and  solemn  delivery  that  gave  weight  to 
his  smallest  utterances,  that  leading  a  life  of  vice  he 
observed  outward  decorum,  that  he  had  a  majestic 
presence   and   a  stately  manner.     These  men  weighed 


"THE  END."  319 

him — manners  against  acts,  life  against  words — and 
found  him  wanting.  Posterity  readjusted  the  scales 
and  pronounced  them  just.  The  great  Revolution 
declared  the  balance.  Louis  XVI.  expiated  the  crimes 
of  his  ancestors  on  the  scaffold. 


THF   END. 


PRINTED  BY  BERNHARD  TAUCHNITZ,  LEIPZIG 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


^  6  1949 
DEO     *  ^^^ 


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MAR  22  1983^ 


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f/IAR  1 2  /3g. 

•m  L9 — 15m-10.'48 (B1039 )  A44 


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